No One Left To Love
by oliveowls
Summary: A story of moments in Johanna Mason's life, starting from her own Hunger Games, eventually leading towards the end of Catching Fire.
1. Prologue

_Character's belong to Suzanne Collins, anything that you don't recognize has been improvised by me. Just a quick warning!: if you're new to the series and haven't read Catching Fire, then please do so before reading this fanfic because there will be spoilers! Reviews are appreciated and welcomed!  
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><p><strong>Prologue<br>**

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><p><em>"They can't hurt me. I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love."<em>

The words slide through my gritted teeth, coming out bitter, cold, and though only really known to me, not entirely true.

But I would never say anything about it out loud.

I stomp my way into the Jabberjay infested section of the forest, taking in its silence. I don't feel sorry for Katniss and Finnick. I didn't enjoy seeing them so traumatically upset, no, but having loved ones will always give the Capitol an upper hand, a leverage that they can hang over you to get you to do whatever they want, no matter how horrible it is.

There is no leverage that the Capitol can hold over my head anymore. There hasn't been since I won my games about eight years ago, when I was only fourteen. Loneliness barely scratches the surface of how I've felt since then.

The only good thing that happened to me was when I first started to mentor, and in turn meet many of the other mentors, thus making new acquaintances. Not everyone of course, but the majority of them made me feel better when I was first starting out because they were people who knew how I felt, and could relate to what I had been through, because they had too, more or less.

But seeing them never lasts long enough. Once the games are over, along with the extensive victory tour that follows, I don't see them outside of those events, except for my own mentor; Blight, who coached me when I had won.

I grit my teeth harder, my jaw tightening as I jerk a blood covered arrow out of a fallen Jabberjay and shake my head. 

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><p>Naturally, he lived across from me in our district's Victor's Village. On the night of the Quarter Quell announcement, after the showings of Katniss Everdeen and her elaborate wedding gowns, with the votes that followed; as well as Snow's announcement stating that the remaining victor's would be pooled had gone off, I snapped the television off throwing the remote at a wall, some kind of vase shattering glass and water all over the floor, and angrily sat by myself in the dark for I don't know how long; trying to calm myself before I broke anything else.<p>

I hadn't met the two newest winners of the games yet, but I'd seen enough of them and their blatant love story on screens for the past few months, to know that their happiness is a lie.

Their smiles stretched too wide to be comfortable. Their kisses strained.

Marriage has never been a dream of mine, and frankly the idea of it was thrown out of my head as soon as I returned home after winning. But I can't help resenting Katniss a little. Her situation could be much worse than it is. And of course I think her berry stunt was a fucking stupid thing to do, and I know she probably wasn't thinking straight when she did it, but now she is most likely having to work twice as hard to make it all seem believable.

She doesn't even seem to want this extravagant wedding bullshit that the Capitol is forcing on her, and I don't blame her. During the showings of her victory tour she seemed to be taking everything all in stride, but I know well enough that it's only a matter of time before the pressure of this makes her snap.

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><p>Blight came over a few hours after the announcements were over, still dressed in the clothes he'd worn earlier that day, looking no better than usual. He turned on some lights, and pried me off the plush chair I'd been in, and sat with me at my kitchen table.<p>

We didn't speak.

We both knew what our only strategy would be. I am the only living female victor my district has, so it's only natural that I'd go back in.

There is only one other male victor besides Blight.

Alan Elms, who is much older than Blight is by a few decades. But it's not because of his age that Alan isn't suitable to go. Six years ago he permanently blinded himself so badly that not even the fanciest of medical technology in the Capitol could repair his eyes.

He told me once that he did it to escape what he called, "walking nightmares". So surely Blight knew that he must go back as well.

Silence, like I had mentioned is the best comfort we could give one another, because we both knew we'd have no choice but to return, and somehow not saying that fact out loud made it easier to deal with. 

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><p>At first I was pleased about this new life of never having to go back in. It was one full of food, shelter, money, survival and in turn, meant my father and Noah would survive because of it.<p>

Even though Noah still stood a chance of being reaped-though would never have to sign up for tesserae now; -and I would annually have to mentor two kids I knew would most likely not survive, as well as the looming threat of always being watched like a hawk every waking moment by the Capitol.

But I had told myself I could handle it all, if it meant my father and younger brother would get a better life.

I quickly came to know through my own nightmares, experiences of mentoring, and attending year after year of victor celebrations in the Capitol, that anyone who survives a Games, never really leaves.

When I think about it and put all my denial aside, even if it were possible, I wouldn't want anyone to take my place.

I cupped my hands around a mug of something warm Blight had made and I, too lost in thought, had failed to notice. He didn't seem upset by the announcement like I thought he would be.

Blight might've been in his mid-forties, but he was still stronger and able to do more than others his age. The food he'd been able to afford from his victor winnings had helped him grow over the decades into a stocky build with his already broad shoulders, despite his recurring illnesses. But I knew that wouldn't be enough to keep him alive this time. Even I'm pretty strong myself, however I made it a point to not make any false promises to myself on coming back.

Either I did or I didn't. After all, the majority of these people were my colleagues, how could I kill any of them?

In all honesty I'm not surprised that this has happened.

A part of me had doubted — and still doubts — that this is what was really decided for the third Quell — it just fits too conveniently for Snow — and while wanting to get rid of the strongest of the strong, I just know he wanted to make sure I had a chance at being taken out for good.

And it's not just because I'm a victor. On a personal level, I've defied him and thrown any order or attempt to subdue me, right back in his face for so long, I'm amazed he hasn't just blown me to bits on the spot.

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><p>Blight.<p>

I'm brought back to the stifling muggy forest around me, and out of my reverie. I probably never thanked him enough for everything he'd done for me, and will never get another chance to, which makes me feel even more like a jackass since he's gone now, all because of that fucking force field.

I had tried to save him when it happened. Shouted his name a few times, shook him, even tried what little CPR I knew, but it wasn't enough. The jolt was instant and he collapsed in a heap, as if he were a rag doll. When I unzipped his ugly blue jumpsuit back, his chest seemed to be sinking into itself, and had a large charred spot that spread all the way to the side of his neck, with smoldering dark smoke pooling off of it.

The fact that he didn't suffer barely consoles me. At least I was able to close his eyes before the hovercraft carried him off.

Finnick walks to me when I come back out, blooded arrows gripped tightly in my hands. One look from his sea green eyes to my brown ones, and I know he can see how I am feeling everything I don't say aloud.

_"He wasn't much, but he was from home." _

Sure, I'd said that a bit too indifferently when I'd finally caught up with him and the two supposed lovers. But Finnick knows me well enough to see the spaces in between. The small gaps that show how hard I'm silently taking all of this, even if I mask it with a glare. He knows how much I valued Blight, even if I barely showed it when in public.

Just like with this, as well as everything else I've ever done throughout my life, I have had no choice but to scowl and bear it. When I sit, my head aches with memories of him, of the family I used to have, and the years of footage that have been played countless times on every screen in Panem, which have come to represent my life.

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><p><em>Well there you have it! Prologue down, and first chapter to be posted soon. Let me know what you think!<em>

_Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter One

_Character's belong to Suzanne Collins, anything that you don't recognize has been improvised by me. Just a quick warning!: if you're new to the series and haven't read Catching Fire, then please do so before reading this fanfic because there will be spoilers! Reviews are appreciated and welcomed!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One<br>**

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><p>My life before being reaped into the games had been one full of back breaking labor that seemed to never end.<p>

District Seven is a fairly large one, which is surrounded by forests for miles in every direction.

It is divided into five different areas of expertise — Load pulling, Furniture builders, Lead climbers, Carpenters, and Lumberjacks, while the shops of candies, clothing, medicines, butchers, tanners, the two factories that make paper, and markets, sit nestled in the middle of it all beside the square.

A large barbed wire chain link fence, enforced with a humming current of electricity that is always on 24/7, leaving no way to get over, through, or under it, encages all of us; even though it stretches far away from where I live.

You can always tell who isn't from the merchant side of the district. Those who work in the forests and the factories, have backs that hunch over in painful curves, blister scarred hands with a few missing fingers here or there, and are trapped in starving bodies.

The only time anyone ever gets to eat decently is during winter when lumber is in high demand, so we could all work for longer periods of time, and produce more. In school we were taught to memorize the various styles of log cutting to fit the Capitol's needs and wants — apparently there was such a thing as having something other than a plain shaped log to burn — and about the different types of wood that looked the best in the Capitol's freakish furniture designs, as well as how the paper making process went; along with carpet making, how to safely pull a load, and lead climb without hurting yourself. There were even furniture building lessons after school, if you were really interested.

In all honesty I never really paid much attention to all of that. School to me was just a giant waste of my time, because I already knew my place.

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><p>My family lived, and had always lived, in the Lumberjack section of our district, and I had a real talent for it. I've worked out in the forests since I was a little kid. I knew how everything worked and how to do it efficiently, so why bother hearing it a second time?<p>

When I wasn't in school I was out with my father and younger brother, helping them cut, sort, and push the wheelbarrows which were always running over, to the pile that was always stacked neatly on the loader belt, waiting to be shipped off to the Capitol when they needed it; and putting what we could spare, back at the small cabin we called a home.

Sometimes people took shifts in the paper making factories for extra money, but I so rarely worked in any of them. That kind of work was mostly reserved for people who were too elderly, or mangled to work in the forests anymore. Sometimes they let the smallest of children work there, until they were big enough to help their parents with whatever they did, because their hands are tiny enough to get into places where adult's hands were too big to fit.

I'm not sure how the stereotypical plaid became so popular, but it's everywhere. The shirts are made out of flannel, which is thick, and comes in handy for staying warm when you have to be outside in the dead of night for hours; but my best guess is that it's just a convenient pattern. No one really cares who's wearing what anyway. Here it's more about function, rather than making a fashion statement.

Working at night was one of the things I'd hated most.

Every now and then, when our quota was low, and in risk of not being reached, we would have to stay out past our regular time, with nothing but the faint light of lanterns, and helmet lights to guide us, screaming a warning to those that were further down, and hoping no one would get hurt when a tree would fall.

I didn't really approve of this method since it was so dangerous, but it's all we could do to get enough so the Capitol would stay off our backs. I'm sure if it weren't for us, they would freeze to death in luxury.

It might not have been an ideal life, but it's what I was used to.

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><p>When I wasn't out helping in the forests, at school, or busy looking after my younger brother, Noah, who was only nine years old; the rest of my time was spent being with my boyfriend, Bruce.<p>

We might have been a bit young by others standards to be dating, but Bruce and I were so alike in personality and in the way we thought, that I couldn't help but be attracted to him. We had been friends ever since my mother passed, him only being one year older than me. Coincidentally he was also the first boy I had ever really kissed. At the best of times, we were inseparable.

He spent any spare chance he could, when not occupied with helping his mother, (who was a furniture maker, while Bruce contributed his muscles and strength to lumbering) with his five other younger siblings; at my home.

He was always in such a good mood, despite the daily hardships he'd been through. Bruce just had a warmth about him that you couldn't help but be drawn to, and reciprocate whenever around him.

And while I don't know how he did it since I'll admit, I'm not the most positive person there is, he always managed to keep a smile on my face, and warmth in my heart.

Until I was reaped, of course.

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><p>It was the 67th Hunger Games. Summer had just started. I was fourteen when my name was called, my hair having been recently trimmed short as it always is a few times a year, and already I was drenched in an afternoon sweat. I watched our district's escort, Peri Vaseloom, stride across the stage to the bowl that holds all the eligible female names, grinning a wide smile with his straight bleach white teeth, his tattooed eyelids glinting in the hot sun.<p>

Five minutes is all it took until my future became very clear to me. My name hung in the stunned silence and I stood amongst the other fourteen year old's, momentarily speechless. The crowd remained quiet as I went up the steps onto the stage with a tight chest, trying to remain impassive for Noah's sake.

Predictably, no one volunteered to take my place. They might have looked unhappy, but I knew they were rejoicing internally.

I caught Bruce's eye from atop the stage; his face scrunched up in a mixture of concern and obvious discomfort. I had tried to hide my hands in pockets my simple dress didn't have; to try and conceal their tiny nervous trembles.

It was the sight of Bruce, pale, and so full of worry, that brought me back to my senses. I remember hoping, begging, over and over inside my head that he wouldn't be picked for boy tribute.

I also remember the wave of relief I felt when he wasn't chosen. A different boy, Logan Garnett; a tall seventeen year old who I had seen glimpses of in school, and vaguely talked to while working, was massive when compared to me.

But the feeling of ease vanished when I shook his hand, and knew that I might be the one who would kill him. I have never been the type to go down without a fight, and I'll be damned if anyone thinks I'll be taken out easily just because he's bigger than me.

But what do I know? To everyone that saw me, I looked like a weak, helpless little child, who's only talent was shaking like a leaf.

Little did they know, they were dead wrong.

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><p><em>I'm extremely sorry for the over-long delay. I had a very personal family tragedy, and am just now getting back to the grind.<em>

_Sort of a short start, but it's coming along. As far as the "67th Games" goes, don't take my word for it, since I'm not sure if that is the official numbered games Johanna won, since it isn't specified in the book._

But spare a second if you can, and let me know what you think!

_Thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter Two

_Character's belong to Suzanne Collins, anything that you don't recognize has been improvised by me. Just a quick warning!: if you're new to the series and haven't read Catching Fire, then please do so before reading this fanfic because there will be spoilers! Reviews are appreciated and welcomed!  
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><p><strong>Chapter Two<br>**

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><p>It feels good to be home again. To see familiar skies, and familiar faces.<p>

I hardly recognize myself from the weeks spent in the arena. So much work had to be done to me afterwards, like healing gaping wounds, putting the ligaments I had torn, back together as well as resetting my jaw.

Thankfully I wasn't given a full body polish, since my stylist thought any scars I had, would go well with the unrelentingly vicious attitude I'd shown the audience after everything was over.

I'm glad I was able to be my real self at the end of it all.

The Capitol crowd absolutely loved it, since it was considered a nicely pulled unexpected twist. They're still crazily enamored about me, which is fine so long as I never have to resort back to that fake sniveling act I'd put on.

Regardless, it's reassuring to have the familiar smell of pine all around me. To be able to see smoke, rising out of woodstoves that warm the inside of homes. It's not like I had expected anything to change, but after spending nearly four weeks fighting for my life for sport, district seven has become the most beautiful place I've ever laid my eyes on.

Ever since I returned yesterday, I've noticed that I have a habit of constantly reassuring myself that I've truly returned. That I've won my games, and have come home triumphant, a victor, a champion, a survivor. That all of this is real.

The first person I make sure to see when I get home is Blight. I bring him a few things — small tokens of gratitude — a few iced meats, sweets I'm not entirely sure he even likes from one of the shops on the other side of the district square, bread, an armful of logs since his stack at home is practically non-existent, and three bottles of immune system strengtheners. Medicine. Not just medicine, but real half inch lipstick red capsules that could only be afforded by someone with as much money as me.

Blight suffers frequent illnesses due to his years spent abusing morphling and drink, which in result has lowered his immune system's ability to defend against the simplest of colds, tremendously.

I know he doesn't like the capsules from the brief time I had with him when I was just a tribute. He always refused to take them when he was ever offered any. They don't seem to be all that bad when you look at them, but maybe they slow down reaction time or something; because when I had returned to the Training Center after I had finally healed, I'd noticed that he seemed slow, slurred, disoriented, and nothing like himself.

But I had gotten them anyway. I know Blight won't get them willingly, and I get the feeling that without them, he'd revert back to morphling and drink, or something worse. I guess what I'm really trying to do is break his habit.

For all I know he could hate all of these gifts, but what exactly do you get someone who kept you alive from certain death? None of them amount to anything close as to what he's done for me, but it's a good start as any.

Blight has told me he relied heavily on the morphling and drink because at times, things become absolutely unbearable for him. That the drugs and liquor are the only things that can calm his mind long enough to get him to sleep longer than five minutes at a time.

I can imagine he's stressed after everything that has happened so far, even if I did win. There's still my impending Victory Tour in a few months, which I'm still not prepared for.

The good thing about me winning is that I can help take some of the pressure off his shoulders now. How he's been able to mentor year after year, watching kid after kid die, alone, and still somehow retain his sanity, is a mystery to me.

He takes my gifts without much remark, until he pipes up with the offer to help me, my father, and Noah, move our things into our new house in the Victor's Village. I shrug off his offer, suggesting he should get some rest while he can. I've never seen Blight sleep once, even when we were mentor and tribute, and from the look of it, he hasn't had a natural day's sleep in months.

It doesn't take long to move. By the end of the day everything has been transferred over, and what little possessions we have, have been placed. And after getting rid of all the dust and spider webs that have settled, it really starts to come together.

The house is huge; it could easily hold my whole cabin in the foyer alone. It came fully furnished, along with a real fireplace instead of a woodstove like the one I'd grown up with, an endless supply of water and electricity which will definitely take some getting used to from all of us. An oven, something called a refrigerator that is much easier than the ice box we used to have; a real, thick, solid wood table instead of one that folds up. We each even have our own rooms. I briefly wonder if I can sleep without the familiar pressure of my little brother beside me.

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><p>That night we invite Blight and Bruce, over for dinner. I hadn't seen Bruce since the hour we were given after being reaped to say goodbye to our loved ones. When he shows up on my doorstep, it feels like the games had never happened; that the time apart from him has just been a horrible dream.<p>

Many thanks are woven throughout dinner to Blight from my father for getting me back to him, safe and — for the most part — unharmed. Blight politely accepts the small gifts my father and brother give, though he probably has no use for them.

Bruce has been sitting next to me with his arm around my shoulders for the past hour, and he also gives Blight a genuine thank you, making some kind of remark about how he couldn't imagine living without me. I hit his chest without any real pressure, because I don't like him thinking like that. Bruce is a good enough looking guy, that I'm sure if I had died, I wouldn't have been very hard to replace.

Blight takes each thank you in stride, not smiling, and not speaking with much of a tone in his voice. He frequently catches my eye from time to time as the night continues on, the small crow's feet around the corner of his eyes tightening every so often.

Long after Bruce has gone back home with plenty of leftovers for his family, Blight decides to head home as well. I walk him to the front door, and hand him his light jacket.

When I try to thank him sincerely, I come up short. And it's not because of the gifts I gave him earlier, or because I have nothing to say. In truth I have an immeasurable amount of things to say, so much so that I don't know where to begin.

But that's the thing. I will never be able to thank him enough. Never be able to express how genuinely grateful I am, no matter how many lousy gifts I give him. It will take my whole lifetime to repay him for what he's done, and even that wouldn't be sufficient enough.

Instead he shrugs his jacket on, tells me to have a good night, and walks out the door to his home across the road.

Nothing I do or say will ever amount to what he deserves.

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><p><em>And there you have it. If you spent Valentine's Day alone like I did, I suggest you divulge yourself in chocolate and direct any hatred you have on the greeting card companies. Happy (Belated) Valentine's Day everyone! <em>


	4. Chapter Three

_Characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that you don't recognize has been improvised by me.  
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><p><strong>Chapter Three<br>**

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><p>Life became considerably easier in the weeks that followed my return. My father and Noah still had to work and go to school, but seeing them fill out and gain weight brought me more joy than I thought possible for one person to have. Since winning, most of my time was either spent being alone, or being with Blight when he's up for having company, until Sunday's when Bruce didn't have to work.<p>

Despite the worries I'd had when I first returned, Bruce had taken my victory extremely well. While I was gone he had dropped out of school to work more. Apparently he got the notion in his head to provide for my family if I were killed. At first I was angry with him, since his family is so much larger than mine, and less able to provide for themselves. We don't get to spend nearly as much time as we used to together because of this, and I hardly ever saw him since I no longer had to work; but a little time with him was better than none at all.

Blight had given me plenty of warnings once I got home to be careful about how much time I spent with Bruce, especially if it was in public. It's clear in his stern, abrasive tone that he's looking out for me. But it also means that other people are probably keeping an eye on me and what I do. I briefly wonder if there might be something he knows that I don't, but I never ask about it; figuring he knows what he's talking about, based on his own experiences.

Which is why, more for Blight's nerves than mine, Bruce and I usually meet only once a week somewhere in the middle of where the Victor's Village and the rest of the district connect. Nine times out of ten Bruce and I ended up going off into the forests, heavily secluded from prying eyes or ears. It's usually late at night when we finally get here, hidden by the darkness of the night, but I could still make out the features of his face to know when he was smiling at me in his same warm manner. Still feel the same loving hold of his hand in mine. This is probably the only time where I feel like I do not have to be on edge. I'd almost forgotten how much of a comfort Bruce is to me.

But then as the weeks started to slow down, and the high I got from all the attention and press wore off, the nightmares that had temporarily visited my head on the train ride home, steadily came back growing stronger and worse in imagery, with each passing night.

Everything around my conscious life, started to become static. Re-experiencing the deaths of the other tributes streamed through my subconscious mind. Seeing the ax that did the killing, being held firmly in my blood drenched hands. I hack my way through each of them one by one, every time I try to sleep. I see myself willingly impale a girl's jugular with a solid thunk of an ax. Slit another boy's throat with his own knife, as if it were made out of butter. Hear all their screams mingle with the sounds of cannons, each of them getting louder; as if someone's turned the volume up, until it gradually becomes quieter and resorts itself to a muted hum of background noise.

But then another dream, a memory of my mother on her death bed from when I was around Noah's age, filters its way in. She looks just as frail and exhausted as she did back then, her pallor pale like a fish's belly. When she speaks to me it isn't her voice that comes out, but Logan's, the boy who was reaped along with me; screaming at me for not putting him out of his misery. For just leaving him there to die half a mile from the Cornucopia, instead of coming back for him. When I blink my mother suddenly vanishes, and I see Logan in her place, lying in a massive puddle of blood; his body visibly gaping with large gashes, his voice straining, begging me over and over to do something.

Out of every nightmare I've had, this is the one that always seems to repeat itself, making me rise with a cold sweat and a racing heart. Sleep, needless to say, becomes impossible, no matter what aid I try.

It is after this dream appears to me a fourth time in one night, that I jerk myself out of bed, tugging my legs into a torn pair of work pants and boots, pulling on the nearest shirt I can find, and stumble my way down the stairs.

A glint outside of the den's front window catches my attention. It seems that just about every light in the second story of Blight's house is still on. If anyone could understand how I'm feeling, it would be him. I waste no time in leaving my house as quietly as I can to head over.

When I got to his small porch I didn't bother knocking. If he was actually asleep right now, I didn't want to disrupt the little amount of rest he somehow manages to get. Walking through the foyer I made my way through the mess of dirty dishes that had become his kitchen, and over the piles of unwashed clothes that sporadically lay around, and headed upstairs, shutting a few lights off as I went.

Reaching the second floor I spotted him immediately, still dressed in his day clothes, sitting in a room that I can only assume to be a home office. For a while he doesn't notice me, and continues to stare out into open space with such a perplexed look, as if something heavy is weighing down on his mind. After standing there for about five minutes, I nudge the door, waking him from this stupor. He gets up a little distractedly, and opens the door wider, motioning for me to come in.

Never mind this being a home office. There's nothing office oriented about it. All that's in here is a desk that doesn't have anything on it, and a couch. There aren't any bookshelves, and nothing hangs on the wallpapered walls.

I sit beside him on the small couch, both of us silent until his dark brown eyes meet mine, and he asks me what I'm doing in his home at three o'clock in the morning, uninvited.

I tell him about my recurring dreams and the panicked sleeplessness they bring me. My stomach is in knots, and the glare from the ceiling light only makes the ache in my head, increase.

"I feel trapped inside my own head. That I can't get out and that no matter how hard I try, there's no way to turn it off. That it will never end."

Blight just puts one of his hands on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, telling me that even though he hated to admit it, this was only the beginning. That even this will become a small, almost trivial matter, when I'm faced with everything else being a victor has to offer.

The pattern of me rising, more often than not screaming myself awake from nightmares, goes on for the next month and a half; although I tried my hardest not to see Blight every time it happened, despite his constant reassurances that it was alright if I did. The only solution I found to preventing them was not sleeping, which became nearly impossible for me, unless I just didn't want to function.

After the first visit at Blight's home, I made the decision that morning not to tell Bruce about it. He was so busy, taking care of his younger siblings while also working overtime. Loading all this on his shoulders would only make him even more stressed out.

The only day he had off was Sundays, and most of the time was spent with me, yes, but he'd always fall asleep within minutes, while his head stayed nestled in my lap, or on my shoulder. I didn't mind though. It was apparent on his face how utterly exhausted he was, and if I could be the source that let him get some true, undisturbed rest, even if it was for a short amount of time, then I would be.

It's on such a Sunday that I opened my door, ready to go see him, that I instead opened it to the sight of my escort and manager, Peri Vaseloom — a man in his late twenties, that's just too pale a shade of pink to be healthy, adorning new glitter dusted lime green hair, lips and fingernails, as well as new eyelid tattoos; standing on my doorstep with my stylist, a fifty something year old woman who is still desperately trying to keep herself looking young — an attempt that she's failing horribly at — and my prep team; which still remind me of mosquito's in the way that they seem to flutter around me, and make me into what they consider to be gorgeous. At first I'm baffled as to why they're here, until I remember my Victory Tour.

They powdered me, fluffed me, stripped my body of any visible arm or leg hair, and redid my eyebrows all the while chattering on about things I could care less about. Once they finished rubbing oil on my limbs, they trimmed my slightly outgrown hair, back to its previous shortened length. This whole process lasts for a good two hours, since every member of my prep team is an extremist when it comes to perfectionism, and were specifically told to just "take care of the necessities".

After telling me they will be back tomorrow to collect me for this tedious tour, and leave, I shrug into my worn in jacket from the days of when I used to work, grab two loaves of bread, fill a canteen with warm tea, and walk into the forest to find Bruce sitting behind a large stack of freshly cut trees that haven't been gathered yet.

"Are you nervous?" he asks me harmlessly, putting his bread down to gently rub the side of my hand with his thumb. I lean on his shoulder, putting my other hand on one of his denim clad knees.

"Why should I be? This whole stupid jamboree is for _me _after all, right? Besides, it only lasts for about a month."

He tenses beside me, and almost immediately I'm hit with the intensity of what I've just said. My games had lasted at least a month if not more. And of course I thought of Bruce as much as he did me, I'm sure. I can only imagine what went through his mind as he watched me on the screens. What did he think when he saw me butcher through half a dozen kids? I can feel how tightly his muscles have tensed through his clothes.

I move closer, kissing his cheek while hugging his arm. "At least this time we can be sure I'll be coming back." His shoulders slump, slowly relaxing. The pressure of his arm finding its way around my waist to pull me as close as can be makes my cheeks warm.

He presses a kiss on my forehead so full of longing that my stomach drops, making me miss him already; wishing I didn't have to go. Resting his head on mine, we sat huddled together in a familiar, comfortable, silence. A long moment of silence lingers in the air until he breaks it by telling me not to do anything stupid. I can't help but chuckle at him, doing my best to reassure him that I won't. It's only when the small pink hues of the sunrise start to appear, that I have to force myself to leave his arms a second time.

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><p><em>Been so long, and I do apologize! End of term projects and presentations have a nasty habit of taking over one's life. But since it's been quite a while I'm planning on posting two chapters since the original version of this one had to be cut in half. Enjoy, and let me know if there's anything you'd like to see, and I'll see what I can do. Thanks!<em>


	5. Chapter Four

_Characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that you don't recognize has been improvised by me._

_I apologize for this chapter not being posted as soon as I had said it would be. Once I re-edited it, fanfiction decided to not work for me. But after much delay, here it is! Enjoy.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter Four<br>**

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><p><strong><strong>  
>Celebrations in the districts go by at an extremely expeditious pace. I'm rushed from province to province, given dinners that range in flavor and quality in such distinct ways, as well as more plaques, and honorary speeches than I know what to do with; and before I know it, after many strenuous weeks, I'd arrived at President Snow's mansion.<p>

My stylist had really gone all out for this night. Dressed me to the nines in a sleek black dress that showed off my muscles, and built me up to make my body give off the impression of being indestructible; while simultaneously also flattering the small curves my fourteen year old body had yet to grow in to. My nails filed down to rounded tips, and painted with a coat of clear nail polish. A perfect hue of vermillion red covers my lips; while my eyes adorned a smoky style that made my brown eyes stand out.

I'm in my room, staring in a three way closet mirror thinking, not for the first time since this tour started, that I look nothing like myself; when Blight walks in, wearing a casual enough suit and tie, with his light brown hair actually combed for once.

He looks me up and down casually, and gives me a kindhearted pat on the shoulder while telling me for the third time since we left district one, to enjoy myself, but to not let all the excitement incapacitate my judgment. I take his words with a light nod, while putting my shoes on, and make my way to what is sure to be one of the most fabulous nights of my life.

And it is fabulous. Breathtaking decorations, beautiful music, banners with my name on them, the works. It's certainly one of the most lavish things I've ever been to. A few people come up to show me their newest hairstyles designed to match my own. All eyes are fixated on me, but I ignore them.

Numerous buffet tables that have endless supplies of various dishes and cuisine's, surround just about every corner of this room.

My face hardens in disgust as I think about how much labor one person in my district would have to do in order to get just one measly little scrap off the plates here, — and even then it would be a poor substitute for the real thing — whereas they are abundant in everything, whether it is food or other luxuries.

The ball room is packed with so many frivolously dressed people it's hard to tell one person apart from another. Many pictures are taken with me. Begrudgingly on my part, because I've never had my photo taken before and pretty soon I come to hate the small purple dots that flood my vision after every snap of a camera.

I break away after an hour or two of this, and end up bumping into quite a few previous victors from the other districts. Haymitch and Chaff make a pretty hilarious comedy duo to the Capitol crowd, if you find falling all over yourself drunk as a skunk, to be all that entertaining.

I also meet Mags, an ancient looking woman from district four, who is one of the nicest women I've ever met. She smiles with what little teeth she has left, and kindly introduces me to Finnick, district four's victor winner two years prior. He wasn't there when I'd visited his district, but Blight told me enough about him on our way here, that I know he has a tendency to be one of the Capitol's most popular victors'.

Meeting him in person, well, he's a nice enough guy, if you like someone that needs a good foot shoved up their ass, since he seems to flirt with just about anyone he lays eyes on. He isn't around long before a horrendous cosmetically altered Capitol woman drags him away.

The list of victor's I meet throughout the night goes on and on over the next few hours. An older looking black haired man who wears glasses that don't seem to fit his face very well. Two more victors', who make incomprehensible grunts or soft sighs, with yellowed skin that's starting to droop. Another woman who leaves her sentences hanging, unfinished. A mother, Cecilia who seems nervous to be here. She briefly tells me about her three children who are waiting on her return. Another much older man, who I don't spend a lot of time talking to because of his hard hearing. And yet another woman, a victor from district two who has capped teeth.

There are an immeasurable amount of other people I meet too, mostly those who are considered of importance to the Capitol. But I grow tired of all this gushed out attention before too long, no matter how genuine it might be at the moment, and end up leaving the crowds to go to a buffet table, hoping I can at least get a bite of the exotic cuisine while I'm here.

As soon as I pick up a small serving of some kind of shellfish, a lace collared man with intricate tattoos on his hands and dark ruby hair, approaches me; putting his hand on my lower back, subtly congratulating me on my victory while stroking the skin the back of my dress leaves bare, speaking in such a low purr, my skin starts to crawl. I grab the nearest utensil I can find — a fork — and keep it hidden while he leads me away to a bedroom that is decorated in so much velvet it makes me want to vomit, if only to improve the interior.

I step over the doorway entrance scowling, knowing all too well what he plans on doing to me. He murmurs something about seeing how indestructible I really am. After he closes the door I grip the golden fork tightly. The man barely takes two steps towards me when I jerk him forward, and slam it into his neck, yelling threats that involve letting his adjoining lower regions see how well I can aim with an ax if he ever attempts to lay another finger on me.

Then, before I wait to see if anyone has noticed his choked screams, I take off running as hard as I can out of the velvet disaster of a bedroom, until I somehow make it back into my own compartment room in the train, wiping the small amount of blood that's spread across my palm, onto the side of my dress.

I'm peeling it off my back when Blight walks in unannounced, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

He stays quiet while I walk past him, grabbing a robe, and storm into the bathroom, letting the door slam behind me. I drop the rest of the dress onto the floor, kicking it to the side, and start working on washing every ounce of the glamorous make up off my face; until I get in the shower, scrubbing my skin till it's red, wanting to rid the person from an hour ago, out of sight for good. My eyes meet my reflection when I get out, taking in what I consider to be the real sight of myself. No make-up, probably more weight than my body has ever had before, nothing to hide the growing rage spreading across my face.

Wiping the small amount of tears — mainly produced from anger — that have begun to form at the corners of my eyes, my thoughts drift off to Finnick. How does he stand it? How can he go through it time after time? _'More than likely, it's from fear of losing someone he wants to protect,'_a voice whispers inside my head.

Instantly my eyes widen as my family and Bruce come to mind. _Oh God._My reflection stares back at me in horror, remembering the moment in the forest with Bruce, when he asked me not to do anything stupid.

"Fuck!" My fist makes a harsh, powerful blow to the mirror; shards of glass shatter everywhere, and my hand starts gushing blood from my knuckles. I bite my bottom lip while my stomach heaves emptily; internally cursing at myself for being so quick to anger. For not realizing until now, how much of an idiot I just was, and the many range of ways they could be punished in response to it. I grip the sides of the over sized sink, steadying myself.

What have I done? What did I just condemn them to? There will be no excuse, no way to talk my way out of it, if I have to defend my actions. My heart clenches as I wonder what will be waiting at home for me, or possibly lack thereof.

Light headed, I breathe in through my nose and out of my mouth, until I calm down enough to breathe without feeling like I'll puke. I emerge slowly from behind the door once my eyes stop watering up, with my hair damp from the previous showering, wrapped up in the robe, feeling the soft carpet against my bare feet; still feeling disgusted and furious with myself.

Blight looks at my bloodied glass splintered left hand, which is now dripping onto the carpet, with a deep crease spreading between his eyebrows. I wish I had paid more attention to his advice before I went out. Actually listened to what he had to say. He doesn't lecture me though. Instead, he goes into the bathroom and comes back out with a pair of tweezers. While meticulously picking the pieces of glass out, all he asks is, "Everything alright?" I look at him, and see the pain on his face. From what, I don't know, though I suspect is has to do more with me — or what will happen when we get home — than anything else.

"Sure. Sure." my tone is smooth, neutral, hollow. He glances at my trembling balled up right hand, but again says nothing. His eyes reflect my own anguish.

This is the first smile Blight gives me that seems genuine. One that is meant to be comforting, showing his concern, and maybe even a little bit of sadness; instead of his usual ones which have always been so concise.

"You're only fourteen." He picks the last shard of glass out, wiping the cuts down with something that burns as soon as it makes contact with my skin. "You'll learn." He wraps up my hand in flesh tone bandages, keeping his grip gentle.

I know I should feel better by his words, maybe even hopeful, but a foreboding fear has nestled itself deep in my stomach, filling me with a worry that won't go away until I can return home, and see any damage I have undoubtedly caused. But there is only so much someone can learn, and unfortunately in my case, experience has always been my best teacher.

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><p><em><em>

_As always, to any that are actually reading this, thank you for doing so. It's much appreciated. _


	6. Chapter Five

_Character's belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that wasn't written by her has been improvised by me. _

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><p><strong>Chapter Five<br>**

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><p>I come home to find no one I love, waiting for me.<p>

The station looks empty of any of my family, including Bruce. All I can make out is my district's population, and cameramen that I've come to compare to vultures because of their tendency to swarm in on me at any given moment.

Blight puts his hand on my back before any panic can get its way into my head.

"Where are they?" I ask, looking out the window to the approaching platform.

"Most likely waiting on us in the Justice Building," he answers in the tired tone he's had since yesterday night. He hasn't voiced his disappointment in me yet, but I know it's there. It shows through the silent frustrated stares he's given me ever since we left the Capitol. "If anything's happened we'll know by the time we get there." He mumbles, going to the door.

That's exactly what I'm worried about. I just hope I'm wrong.

I ignore any questions asked, brushing through the crowd, making a beeline for the Justice Building with Blight following close behind me.

After the door slams shut behind us, I look up and only see Noah, still dressed in his work clothes. His small blistered hands resting on his knees, sitting on a thick uncomfortable looking loveseat. I sit next to him and begin to lightly stroke his hair, letting my fingers massage his scalp; something I haven't done to him since he was a toddler; and remain quiet.

This silence between us doesn't last very long, because after a few minutes of my repetitive strokes, he pulls my hand away, looking down at his scuffed boots.

"I don't know where father is." He states in a low mumble. I put my arm around his shoulders.

"How could you not know? Isn't he here?" I ask, again trying not to let any sign of nervousness show in my voice.

Noah shakes his head, telling me they both went to bed last night, same time as always, and when he woke up, our father wasn't anywhere to be found. I ask if maybe he'd gotten an early start on the lumber work but Noah denies any chances of this, explaining how everyone was given the day off because of my homecoming."Well what about Bruce?" I try to keep my tone steady, though Blight won't quit staring at my still recovering left hand that's gripping Noah's shoulders probably a little too tightly. Noah shakes his head again, wiping at the tears that are steadily dripping down his face.

My chest tightens, remembering what had happened only twenty four hours ago.

It turned out the man I had injured was a member of the presidential board, and obviously was a close follower of Snow.

Apparently his elegantly laced collar identified him as such, but I'd had no idea. An attendant had come to my compartment after Blight had bandaged my hand, and told me that I was to get dressed and come with him.

When I arrived to Snow's office, he greeted me with one of his venomous smiles. He motioned for me to take a seat on the plush leather sofa that sat across from the marble desk he was behind, so I did, trying my best to cover up my left hand with the palm of my right. I gave a few stiff compliments about how nice his home was, and how lovely everything looked. Mindless chit chat that I'm sure neither of us really meant.

Then, before things could go stale, he looked me dead in the eye. "I must say Ms. Mason, your ferocious strength and ability to kill fearlessly…effortlessly, was admirable in the Games this year. Quite a feat, especially when one considers your age, and physical size." I nodded, not daring to remove my gaze from his.

"However," he paused and took a sip of a brightly coloured drink from a teacup, and dabbed his puffy lips with a cloth napkin. "I never expected for it to happen in my own home." Thinking back on it now, I shouldn't have felt shocked. Of course he would've heard about it. How could I have ever expected him not to?

He then proceeded to tell me the man's position in the Capitol and informed me that he'd died mere minutes ago. He asked me what I thought should be done in response to it, how I could make it up to him for taking away such an important member of his council. I was able to tell what he meant with that smug smile of his. "I'm too young," was my excuse, one the President didn't seem entirely convinced on. "I mean really _sir_, you can't honestly tell me you're surprised by what I did. I'm only fourteen," I had snapped in a tone a little too full of insolent.

He smirked at my subtle defiance of his plan, silently observing my taut position, no doubt taking note of the fresh bandages on my left hand, and the way my eyebrows were darted down in a glare; until he brought his eyes back to mine and said, "Very well then Ms. Mason, I believe you've made your point. Enjoy the rest of your evening while you can." When I had shaken his hand before leaving, the gleam of retribution was very evident in his snake like eyes. It set my blood cold, making the concern I had for my loved one's safety, all the more impacting.

"Bruce is gone." I look up from my feet into Blight's face, momentarily baffled. My drawn out speech and small feast now over, I'd been sitting alone in the den, waiting on Bruce to stop by. Instead all I see is Blight standing in the den's entryway, reeking of smoke.

"What?" At first I'm almost naïve enough to think he means that he's working overtime, or that he's been sent off somewhere, but something in the tone of his voice tells me that this isn't the case.

My heart feels like it's about to stop, and I immediately flicker my eyes away from his. But, it doesn't. It just keeps beating over and over again, keeping me locked in this moment, only hitching when Blight keeps talking. "Not just Bruce, but the rest of his family as well. Seems like they were taken in an unanticipated accident." I can feel my face blanching as he goes on, saying that their cabin had caught fire in the middle of the night, and they weren't able to get out. It sounds so simple coming from him, but I know it for what it really is. I imagine Bruce's mother, his younger brother and two younger sisters. I imagine the intense pain they endured because of me. Because they were associated with Bruce. Because Bruce was so close with me.

My chest clenches in a way I haven't felt since the day my mother died. I struggle to breathe, to speak, to react in any way possible. The house is silent, and I notice that Blight is leaning on the den's entry wall, now frowning with his arms folded. A bubbling sensation rises from my stomach spreading into my nose, and for a moment, I feel as if I'm going to burst into tears.

However no tears come. I stare blankly at the wooden floors, my mind emptying deeper and deeper into sadness, as things quickly come into perspective. This was no accident.

Memories of the laced collared man and Snow's subtle threat overlap in my mind. Thinking back on it, Blight had warned me before we'd even made it to the Capitol that the President might try something like this, but I had told him that I could handle it. That I had survived a Hunger Games for crying out loud, how hard could a party be?

But now I know that this alleged accident was caused by my refusal to President Snow, no matter how polite I had tried to make it sound. This is how the Capitol gets a tight, unrelenting hold on you. They take someone you love, and end them in a blink of an eye, so that you must abide to whatever they want.

My stomach feels as if it's sinking, full of a regret I can't show, because I know that this is all my fault. Noah comes downstairs shortly after, staring at me, but I look away. I don't tell him what happened, or how it is because of me that it happened. Cabin fires might be rare since we all have taken precautions to prevent them, but they do happen from time to time.

How clever of President Snow, to use one of the weaknesses my district has, and make it all look spontaneous. Especially since it is unable to be linked back to him without proof. I push away the comfort Noah intuitively tries to give me, and head straight up the stairs to my room, trapping any tears into my pillow, until sleep captures me.

The next day I wake early, scrub off the scents the Capitol has left on me, and dress, trudging out into the chilly morning air to the pile of ashes that once used to be where Bruce and his family lived.

I kick at the pile, letting the wind sting my already puffy eyes. He was the one who said he couldn't imagine living without me, but really, it couldn't be more different. What will I do? Except for Noah, Bruce was all I had going for me, before the games. Before I'd won.

We were practically inseparable but now…

I hang my head down low, letting the grief wash over me like a heavy rain. Many people pass by me, as the sun starts to rise. Whether they're heading off into the woods for their shifts, or patrolling the area I don't know. Whether they're citizens or Peacekeepers, they don't approach me, and I don't acknowledge them.

I lose track of time. The sun is setting when I feel Blight pull me up from my crouched position, my legs instantly aching and tingling as if they've been asleep for too long.

"If you let yourself get this upset you'll never be able to mentor." I glance at him and see that his eyes are once again tensely trained on me. "This is why you don't get reattached once coming home. I _told _you to be careful. I _warned _you time and time again something like this might happen. But did you listen?" His words are harsh, and full of anger that I suspect might be fueled by alcohol, but they're true. I deserve his criticism. Being fourteen is no excuse for naïvity, and I really should have thought before I did anything, especially to the man in charge of the country. Blight might be blunt and curt in words, and actions, but he usually always makes a valid point, no matter how unsympathetic he is in making them.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, not knowing what else to say, or who I might be apologizing to.

"Yeah, I know," Blight sighs, his anger slightly settling down. "We're all sorry sooner or later."

I just nod in response, letting him lead me away from the ashes, telling myself that as hard as it might be, I will have to push this behind me. Pretend it never happened. Pretend that Bruce meant nothing to me, and that his death isn't killing me inside.

Instead of taking me back to my home like I had thought, Blight takes me to his. Specifically, he pulls me inside and leads me upstairs to the office I had visited him those nights a few months ago when I was plagued by nightmares.

He sits in the desk chair, and opens the front desk drawer, setting a box on top of it. I pause a moment before touching the lid.

"What am I going to tell Noah?" Blight looks at me, half asleep on his feet already, with his chin propped in his palm.

"Tell him nothing, of course. He'll figure it out on his own." It's statements like these that make me want to punch the daylights out of Blight. To yell my head off at him.

"Noah might be young, but he's not stupid."

Blight snaps a warning to not tell him anything in detail whether he asks about it or not. "It is what it is," he yawns out. "Better not to drag him any further into it." I agree with it, only because it's the only way to protect Noah from my foolishness."Anyway," he guides my attention back to the box. "Take one when you get home in bed. Don't swallow it; it'll dissolve on your tongue on its own." I pick the box up and carry it back to my home.

The capsules aren't very thick, but I recognize them as a certain expensive brand of solidified type of morphling that I'm guessing is nearly impossible to get. I lay down after scooting Noah to the other side of my bed, and place one on my tongue just like Blight told me to. Slowly, gently, everything around me becomes softer. My muscles relax gradually at first, until I start to wonder if they're even there at all. My mind feels as if it's unraveling and it's like nothing in the world can hurt me. I relish the immense calmness it brings to me.

The next morning however, all feelings of softness have vanished. I feel hypersensitive of just about every discomforting thing around me, from the hardness of my mattress, to the weight of Noah's body laying on my right arm. After much struggle to gain balance, I get dressed and wobble over to Blight's home, returning the box of morphling to him. He assures me any nausea I have will go away. That the liquid version is much more satisfying, but it's under a closer watch than whatever these things are.

The events of yesterday ease their way back to me as my head starts to clear up, reminding me that they did in fact, happen.

I let Noah stay home from school and from work in the forests. I haven't seen or heard him cry yet, but I know he will, and when he does, I want to be there for him.

Once mid-afternoon comes around, after I make Noah eat something, there's a knock at our front door. When I open it, all that is to be seen is some kind of vase laying on the small porch. The minute I see the white rose tied around the top of it by an equally white ribbon, my body freezes in place. The name of my father has very neatly, been engraved onto this vase in golden letters.

Bile rises into my throat as I realize the container isn't a vase at all, but an urn; full of what used to be my father. Quickly, resisting the urge to gag from the rose's extremely potent smell of blood, I carry the urn to the cellar, hiding it within the darkness.

Snow's message couldn't be any clearer than if it'd been carved into the wall. I begrudgingly come to terms with how much the Capitol still owns me, regardless of my victory. I'd even go so far to say that my life had much more freedom in it when we were dirt poor. At least then I could make my own decisions without a traumatizing reprimand.

A familiar sinking feeling weighs down on my heart as I hear Noah eating just above the cellar door, somewhere in the kitchen. Besides Blight's chastising advice, Noah is all I have now. The only blood relative left to me. With the clanking of the cellar door closing behind me as I ascend back into the den, I make a firm, irrevocable promise to myself to protect him with everything I have.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading!<br>_


	7. Chapter Six

_Characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that wasn't written by her has been improvised by me.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter Six<br>**

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><p><strong><strong>Reaping day comes just like it always does. I'm fifteen now, but it doesn't change the fact that I have no choice but to do this. It doesn't change that for the past few months my brother and I have been legally orphans; and that it's entirely because of me.

In a matter of minutes, I'll have two kids' lives entrusted to me. I don't expect to do well at this, but it's a good reason Blight is here to balance the mistakes I'm sure to make.

People slowly get accounted for and make their ways to their age groups. Peri watches over them excitedly, like a child impatiently waiting to unwrap a present they've been waiting on all year long. Emotionally, nothing has changed from last year. The air still has the same sense of lingering anxiety that accompanies every game's reaping day.

Only now I'm sitting on the stage, instead of standing scared shitless in the crowds below. Looking down on them doesn't make me feel any better. All I notice are the panicked faces looking back somewhere along here; the thought that any of them will soon become my responsibility, unsettles me.

I see Noah standing with the other under aged kids, just in front of the adults who are without children, who sometimes bet whatever they have, and it makes me feel even worse, knowing he'll be eligible soon.

Alan, Blight's predecessor, sits to his left noticeably shaking in his seat, while Blight sits beside me, as the treaty speech goes off and Peri calls the two unfortunate kid's names.

Elsa Yarrow is only two years younger than me, and badly coordinated. I try to keep my face from scrunching up in disappointment when she stumbles over her own feet three times as she makes her way to the stage top. I should know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving, but I get the feeling that none of it is intentional. If so, I'm not expecting her to do well.

The boy tribute, Kale Hadley is three years older than me, and twice my size. For all I know he's a grown man. The fact I'm supposed to help him survive, to actually give him advice, and in a way, be his superior, is laughable even to me.

Like always, when he isn't given a choice to stay behind at home, Alan locks himself in his own compartment the minute we step onto the train.

They both trust Blight right away. Given his decades worth of experience at coaching, I'm not initially surprised.

When they come to me, it's only for answers. They beg for explanations as to how I managed to do it. How I could keep myself alive and kill so heartlessly, which I don't tell them. It's bad enough I was able to do those things in the first place, trying justify it with logic would just be lying to them.

I don't make the few weeks spent mentoring them pleasant. The arena is far from any kinds of pleasantry, so I don't hide how it awful it will be for them. How it will undoubtedly change them, if they make it long enough. I give out advice in an abrasive tone every time I see them, only because it's the quickest way to get their full attention.

Nearly everyone will swarm to the Cornucopia — be one of the few that doesn't. If you must, only stay near the supplies farthest away and then hightail it out of there. It is crucial you then find a source of water, but don't trust appearances. Something could look safe, when really it's tainted somehow. In a way that could get you killed without feeling a thing, so, be sure to only eat or drink something if you're one hundred percent positive you know what it is. Don't trust anyone. Always be aware of your surroundings. Don't be a hero. If you have any doubts, no matter how small, do the opposite.

While they get training from Atala, I go into the Games Headquarters, where many of the other mentors get an actual good look at me. One that isn't blinded by festivities or drink.

Their eyes are full of concern. Or is it pity? Maybe they think I'm intimidated by everything since it's my first year, and I'm so young. But they all share a look that shows they know what I'm getting myself into, and perhaps they just feel sorry for me. But I could be wrong; it could be that this is normal. Just a victor thing I haven't been accustomed to yet.

The room is spotless of any kind of dirt or dust that it's almost antiseptic. I take a seat in one of the twenty four stations that has a distinct _"__**7**__"_ engraved into the back of the chair. The stations line up along a broad wall that's covered with multiple screens. The ones at the very top are much larger than the rest. Used for close ups of the carnage to come, I assume. There are so many rows of buttons at my station's screen that is used for keeping track of your tributes, I'm not entirely sure I can learn everything by next week, when the Games will be in full swing.

I spend the next three hours devoting myself to memorizing what button launches the parachutes, learning where on the touch screen betting money is pooled, how the voice commands work for looking up supplies to send, and taking a look at the many range of supplies they have to choose from, as well as how strong the object is, and what it's made out of. The others mostly mingle around with everyone else, but a few come over to me every now and then and make sure I understand how everything functions.

Blight sits to my right as I start to take the earpiece in my left ear out, and lightly touches my shoulder. "Not as hard as you thought, eh?" I shrug, not answering back.

It's a lot to adjust to in such a short amount of time, but once the gong sounds, I give the 68th Hunger Games my full attention.

Elsa dies within the first five minutes. I curse under my breath when I see her running directly towards the Cornucopia, deliberately ignoring what I've told her. My anger doesn't last long, because shortly after, she trips over a small pile of backpacks getting her ankles tangled in the straps. The boy from district two is right on top of her, impaling a spear through the nape of her neck. Enobaria lets out a proud chuckle as the boy runs off, leaving her to bleed to death. Elsa's cannon most likely fires, but goes unheard amongst all the chaos.

Kale does better than I expected. After an hour he's put quite a long distance between himself and the bloodbath. He's only armed with a dagger and an empty canteen.

Fatigue quickly takes over him as he reaches a section covered by deep murky looking waters with tall grasses that go past his belly button.

Within minutes enough money is pooled to give him some bread from our district, and a bottle of clean water. Blight doesn't give it to him right away like I would have done. It takes me a while until I realize this might be the only things we'll be able to send to him for the entire game's duration. That he might not be as highly sponsored as others. My brows furrow as I realize Blight never went over with me how getting sponsors works, but it's too late to ask him now.

Six days in, and I begin to think Kale might actually make it. He's struggled, the little weight he'd gained from being here, now gone; making him look thinner than he ever was back home. The bread and water sent to him from Blight only lasted him three days.

Though I do hand it to him; he's hidden himself surprisingly well enough to avoid fighting with anyone else. Sixteen kids have already been killed. Kale's made it to the top eight, and his sponsor money has tripled since yesterday in result. It's clear the Capitol crowd is becoming impatient, from the numerous stunts that have been pulled to try and get the remaining tributes all together; which Kale has so far managed to survive.

Blight and I take turns at the controls, helping him in any way possible. As the night stretches on I begin to search for things like _hatchet _and _medicine_ or _shield_.

Many things flash across the screen, most of them with large bold red letters blinking _"UNAVAILABLE" _underneath. Things I will never be able to send out to him, with the way things are heading.

The next time I look up from the controls at the larger displayed screens that are filming the games, all I can see is blood gushing from Kale's throat, while he scrambles around, helplessly being ripped to shreds by some kind of huge split tongued mutts with large claws that tear through his skin as if it were paper.

I shout the term _painkiller _but Blight reaches over my arm, turning the screen off. A sudden, high pitched, "NO!" escapes from my throat, jarring the focus of the other mentors nearby; though all I can feel is fury towards Blight, for doing absolutely nothing to save him. It makes me feel horrible, just sitting here, unable to make Kale's last moments painless.

Blight puts his hand on mine the same way Bruce used to when I'd had a bad day. He mutters quietly that I did nothing wrong. I'd done my best, and really that's all I could offer either of them. That it's not my fault. That I knew their deaths were going to happen, and it wouldn't do me any good if I got choked up about it.

I'm too numb to believe him. How could it not be my fault? I was supposed to help them, to protect them, advise them, and I failed pathetically. How can I just _allow_ him to be in such agony?

I think back to things I should have said, or questions I should have answered in more detail, taken more time to go over with each of them, so that there was absolutely no confusion to be had.

Despite the extreme self loathing I'm feeling internally, my face remains a blank slate. I keep my jaw clenched, blocking the screams built up in my throat, from coming out.

I spend the rest of the Games that night in my room on the seventh floor, not wanting to see the others tributes flourish in success.

It's fair to say, with the way I am, District Seven really won't be getting another victor for a long time to come.


	8. Chapter Seven

_Characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that wasn't written by her has been improvised by me.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven<br>**

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><p><strong><strong>Enduring the rest of the games in my room doesn't last very long. My nightmares get so bad that I wake shrieking my head off most of the night. Blight brings me small syringes full of morphling that he swiped from the infirmary to help me sleep, but it doesn't work. Instead of giving me comfort, it begins to make me feel caged, forcing me into a hazy stupor, intermixing all the horrors that have befallen me so far, leaving no way to shut them off.

The Games are automatically streamed on the television in my room, making the fact that I just inadvertently allowed two kids to be killed, impossible to ignore. After three days of staying confined to my room's floor, I start to get restless with nothing but my failure to think about.

So, if only to distract my guilt, I ride the overly extravagant elevator up to the roof. The garden there is in perfect condition, and the wind chimes that are placed throughout it ding every few minutes. I walk to the raised ledge nearby, resting my hands on it, looking down into the large brightly lit streets below.

"Not planning on jumping are you? 'Cause just so you know, it won't work. There's a force field." I turn around, seeing the owner's voice. It belongs to none other than Finnick Odair.

But there's something different about him. Dressed in the simplest of clothes I've ever seen on him, his hair in disarray, his physique absent of all the glam, broad smiles, or several varieties of women lingering at his sides, he appears almost normal. Overwhelmed, exhausted, extremely disheveled…but normal.

I lean back, pulling my shirt sleeve down to cover the bruises on my arm; resting my weight onto my elbows on the ledge while he walks closer, putting his hands in his pockets.

Something about my expression must make him frown, because soon he looks just as miserable as I feel.

"Yeah," he half heartedly sighs. "Mine are dead too. The kids, I mean."

I look away, not sure if I should be feeling sympathy for him because he must be experiencing the same pain I'm in right now, or envious because he's had more practice at dealing with this than I have.

"What, a popular guy like you not able to get sponsors?"

He gives me a tight lipped smile. "Not really. Usually I get sponsors throwing themselves left and right but I actually didn't get that much this time." He seems almost relieved at this.

"Did I steal your thunder?" I find this impossible for anyone to ever do, even if he chuckles at my teasing. Elsa didn't live long enough for sponsors, but I'd like to think Kale got what he did because of his own doing, and not because it was I who was his mentor.

Finnick has been shown on screens repeatedly ever since he won. My victory has halted that somewhat, but he doesn't seem to mind. The Capitol thrives on my vicious attitude, but I haven't given them any spare chances to see me since my Victory Tour, other than the brief time before these Games, which I wasn't exclusively spoken to. Unlike Finnick, who seems to be a constant guest in anything the Capitol does.

I'm reminded of how effortlessly he was showered with gifts during his games, all because of how beautiful the Capitol citizens consider him to be. My eyes narrow a little, no doubt showing the pang of bitterness I feel towards him even if it's just for a moment.

"I guess they just weren't as pretty as you." It comes out harsher than I'd meant for it to, but Finnick smiles a little more all the same, actually looking me in the eyes for the first time since this conversation started.

"Guess not." He pauses for a few minutes before speaking again. "I know you must be feeling horrible right now. But you have to understand —"

I put my hand up, cutting him short. "Spare me the lecture, OK? Blight has already babied me enough. I'm fine."

"Wasn't trying to, Johanna." His tone reminds me of my father after a long day of working and coming home with frustration. "You're still human, same as me. No one would blame you if you were feeling bad about this." I roll my eyes, folding my arms over my chest to push any kind of gratitude away, but his kind smile isn't lost on me. Even if what he says is true, the last thing I want while I'm here is pity.

Finnick rocks back and forth on his heels, glancing out into the distance. I catch his line of sight and look too, seeing a larger, highly defined screen displayed on the roof of a building just a few yards away over my shoulder, showing the games unfold in an anticlimactic massacre.

I look away from this screen too, though the volume on it works just fine. Finnick joins me, both of us diverting our attentions elsewhere. "Sometimes it's best to put the past behind you, and look forward to the future, to what you can do now. As cruel as it sounds, there will always be other games; other chances for you to do better. Mistakes can be the best teachers, sometimes. Mags told me that my first year. Maybe it will help you too." When I don't give any sort of answer in return, he goes back down in the elevator, leaving me alone.

Within two hours time, a boy from District One takes the crown as victor. 

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><p><em>So, just a bit of (blossoming? budding?) friendship between the two. I've never seen them as a pairing, least of all romantically. Just, in my head I like to think that Finnick and Johanna are friends — maybe not the best of friends, but comfortable enough with each other that they know they have someone they can confide in — by the time Catching Fire comes along.<em>

_Might have not been the most interesting chapter, but a necessary one in my opinion.  
><em>

_As always, I appreciate everyone who reads; thank you for doing so!_


	9. Chapter Eight

_Characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that wasn't written by her has been improvised by me. _

_I'm so pleased everyone's enjoying this story! Your reviews and encouragement warm my heart. Just to clarify this story isn't complete yet, (there are still more chapters to come) so, I apologize for any confusion!_

_Without further ado, let's proceed!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

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><p>In the middle of the night before my sixteenth birthday, I'm awakened from Blight yelling in my face to wake up, while Noah shakes my shoulders, looking scared half to death. I sleepily shrug on the nearest clothing I can find, get Noah to lay back down, and trudge along, bed head and all, as Blight hurries me four houses down, to Alan's home.<p>

Aside from a few busted out windows, and an obviously unkempt porch, everything else seems normal, though this is the first time I've ever been to Alan's place, and don't really know if this is how it always looks.

As soon as I step through the front door into his foyer, it becomes clear there's something very, very wrong. The house is ten times messier than Blight's has ever been. It's as if a hurricane blew through, causing anything that could be messed up in some way, to be ruined.

The mess hardly worries me when Blight turns a light on, and I get a better look around. Large droplets of blood cover the floors, while the majority of the walls are smudged with red smears, as if someone was being pulled back while trying to get away from someone else.

I follow the trail with Blight at my side to see that one side of it leads to Alan's surprisingly spotless kitchen. He's sitting at the table with his head hanging low, a puddle of wet redness dripping out on the table top underneath him.

Alan raises his head when Blight announces that he's brought me over. I take a seat next to him while Blight wipes up the blood with a towel, and see the damage for myself.

Alan has gouged both of his eyes completely out of their sockets. With what, I don't know. There is no sign that he used a fork or a knife, since neither are anywhere to be seen, though I'm guessing he somehow used his fingers if his bloodied hands are anything to go by.

My stomach quenches with nausea when I try to look at him. To see his once dark blue eyes replaced with miniature blood gushing craters that sink deeply into his face, it unnerves me.

I can only imagine how Blight must be feeling to see his mentor, his own reason for being alive, for surviving, in this state of physical condition. Half of me hates that I was brought over, since I'm not nearly as close to Alan as Blight is, and have never really gotten to know him. But another half feels sorry for Alan. He'd always been alone. No family that I'm aware of; or children. At his elderly age I guess I shouldn't be surprised how much his solitude of fifty three years has caught up with him.

Once we realize that the bleeding isn't going to clot up on its own, Blight goes out to get what he needs and leaves me to watch over him. I soak a rag in warm water and wash what I can. His hands, the walls, the floor. Alan refuses to let me touch his face.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" he tilts his head towards my general direction. If Alan were a normal person I would've answered his question with an immediate yes. But he isn't. He's a victor, just like me. I don't know what his horrors are, or if they surpass my own in severity, but whatever he's been dealing with he's dealt with on his own, keeping it all to himself for too long a time.

"No. Though I am curious as to why you would do such a thing. It's not a very good look for you." He dips his head a bit, letting an awkward moment pass before I add, "I've never seen Blight look so panicked before." But that doesn't mean I don't understand why.

Anyone with eyes can see that Blight and Alan are very close, probably closer than he and I are; and he must have the same sense of indebtedness I feel towards him — that every victor feels towards their mentor — and he can't repay him very well if Alan is trying to off himself.

"None of this is his fault," he answers stiffly. "I won my games when I was seventeen and it's haunted me ever since. No matter what I did, or where I went, it followed." he lays one of his hands out patting it around, so I hold it, just on the off chance he might try to hurt any other part of his body.

"I had to, Johanna. I had to escape these walking nightmares. If I can't see them, they can't find me." I can't take my eyes off him. I can't seem to turn away from the puddle of blood that's now dripping off the table and onto my pants leg. His knobby knuckles whiten when he squeezes my fingers. "Please promise me you won't let it get this bad. If it does, find another way to deal with it before it worsens. Talk to someone. Do anything but this."

I almost ridicule him for being such a hypocrite, but he just looks so pathetic and shriveled, I keep quiet and offer a shoulder to lean on, instead.

Blight returns a half hour later with his arms full of what looks like the whole apothecary's stock supply, and tells me I can go home.

I'm reluctant at first, not entirely sure that the two of them should be left alone together in case Alan refuses any of this care too, but end up deciding to do as he says, wanting to give him privacy to tend to his previous mentor; and walk off Alan's empty porch, ashamed for feeling relieved to be out of there.

The sun has just started to rise and the sounds of the rest of the district waking, workers making their way to the factories and forests, steadily become louder, when I notice a ridiculously over-polished car parked outside of my house. I push panic aside, hardening my face into an impassive slate, going up the small porch steps, ignoring the large vase full of roses near my doorstep. When I get inside I come in mid-sentence of the President talking to Noah in our den.

Tea filled cups rest on the table in between the sofas they each sit on, both noticeably untouched. Noah looks like he'll wet himself any minute, and is still dressed in his night clothes. He barely acknowledges my appearance when I greet President Snow and lead him to the adjoining, though mostly unused, office. One of the peacekeepers that accompanied the President sit, keeping an eye on Noah while the other, stands in the hallway outside of the office.

He takes a seat in a chair next to a small bookshelf, while I sit in the loveseat at the opposite side of the room.

His eyes glance over my physique, mostly at my right shirt sleeve and pants leg; both of which are covered in blood, but says nothing about it. I keep my mouth in a tight line when he congratulates me on turning sixteen. "You know, in the Capitol you'd be considered a full fledged woman. An adult, if you will."

I rest my arm on the back of the loveseat, rubbing my fingers against the soft fabric."Yes well, we both know how I don't exactly live up to the Capitol's standards."

He remains quiet, narrowing his snake like eyes, giving me a warning glare I know all too well. The air between us chills with the following silence, until I shift in my seat, looking away.

Blight had warned me a week ago at his home that the President would probably try something like this. That I wouldn't be given a choice. At the time I had brushed it off; confident I could think of a way to postpone anything he threw my way.

"Why beat around the bush?" He raises his white eyebrows. Intrigued, as if to say, _"go on."_

"President Snow," I grip the end of my shirt with my free hand, forcing myself to keep eye contact. "I know relationships in the Capitol are much more casually done than they are here. But I just don't find the idea of losing my virginity to a complete stranger all that appealing."

He folds one leg over the other effortlessly, and continues examining me with cold eyes. "Do you find the loss of loved ones any more appealing?"

I immediately bite my upper lip to suppress it from turning into a scowl. The tense silence returns, until he waves his hand and the Peacekeeper standing outside, shuts the door.

The office is one of the smallest rooms in my home, but being trapped in it with the ruler of our nation, makes it all the more tighter. Making me feel even more caged than any of my nightmares could ever do. My shoulders slump as if a heavy weight has been placed on me.

He's still staring at me, still intrigued, patiently waiting for me to answer back. I can feel the muscles in my face tightening, causing a glare to form. "If I'm such a hassle, why not just kill me?"

I don't really mean this, of course. I would never leave Noah high and dry, just so he could go back to the destitute life we had before all of this. If something did ever happen to me, I would hope Blight would straighten up, and look after him somehow, even if he isn't exactly the most familial type of person.

Instead of getting something to wager my situation with, the President chuckles at me, as if I've told an amusing joke.

"Interesting. Tell me, just how would I do such a thing, Ms. Mason? Publicly? Secretly? Televise it for the whole country to see? Or perhaps you'd prefer it to be done just for your younger brother's eyes only, mm?"

He's toying with me. Mocking me in a way that tells me he doesn't take what I've said seriously. I let the scowl come across my face. Let the hatred show through my eyes. "I don't know. You're the expert. Make it seem like an accident. We both know how great you are at doing that."

A smirk passes over his features. "I'm sorry Ms. Mason, but it's just not that simple."

An audible huff comes from me, and my arms fold.

He wipes at his freshly pressed jacket and rests his elbows on the arms of the chair. "The games are just a few months away. Whether you've looked into it or not, you did in fact have sponsors during your games. Sponsors that are upset, feeling overdue for pay back they've waited two years to receive." His face hardens, tightening, showing a firm impassive glower. "You _will_ go to the Capitol and show each and every one of them how grateful you are. They have all spent a great deal of money on you, and your tribute boy."

I keep my line of sight on my boots, realizing the inescapable loophole he's putting me in. Even if I finished all of my own sponsors, I'd still have to "thank" each sponsor any of my tributes receive. He's made it very clear that there is no ultimatum, no matter what solutions I come up with.

"If it's a pregnancy you're worried about, we do have supplies to prevent it." His tone has lost it's edge somewhat as he sets some kind of long plastic box on an end table, above the drawer where I have three morphling syringes stashed, courtesy of Blight's previous swipings, and gives me a look that is just within reach of satisfaction with the predicament he's forced on me. I think of Noah, who hasn't deserved any of the things I've brought down on him, nor does he need any more burdens caused by me, to deal with.

"You've lost enough people already, Ms. Mason. Don't make anyone else have to suffer because of your foolishness."

My jaw has clenched again, making the small wires that keep it connected, pinch at my cheek.

He rises, holding his hand out to me. "So, we've reached an agreement? Or should I start making other arrangements?"

I stand, shaking his hand in an iron grip. "That won't be necessary."

Somewhat content, President Snow and his Peacekeepers leave afterwards. Before I go, I make Noah get back in his own bed and tell him to behave while I'm gone; though I don't tell him why I'm leaving for two weeks. He might only be an observant eleven year old, but the look in his eyes shows me that I don't have to say anything. He understands, even if he hates it, because he must realize he's just as powerless as I am.

The sounds of Alan arguing against Blight's offers to go to the Capitol, come into range when I step outside. I can hear them both fussing at each other from his porch. Alan shouting that he doesn't need his eyes to be fixed, on account of "deserving" this one way or another, while Blight insists otherwise.

I kick the vase of roses away from the doorstep, letting it shatter on the ground. I almost go up to Blight to tell him what's happened, but force myself away, unwilling to explain why I'm leaving without him for once. Chances are, he already knows why.

I head in the opposite direction towards the station, with nothing but an intense disgust directed exclusively at myself.

Oh the things we go through for the people we love.


	10. Chapter Nine

_As always, characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that wasn't written by her has been improvised by me. _

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

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><p>I never knew how calming the scent of pine could be. The smell of it surrounds me, assuring me that I'm finally home, regardless of how late it is. I'm alone, sitting in a section far west in the forests, out of sight; miles from the victor's village.<p>

I wince when I adjust to a position more comfortable against the large stacks of lumber, and feel a surge of pain twist in places I didn't know my body had. Covered in heavy bruises where I'd been pinned down, where many had nipped and clawed at until I was red. Pressed on until it hurt. Bite marks still rest on both sides of my neck, my chest, and my inner thigh.

I don't remember arriving here, or being escorted home. I vaguely recall staying inside my house long enough to check in on Noah and see that he's asleep. I remember the feel of hot water and the softness of my bed. The view of my room's ceiling.

But now I find myself out here. Dressed but shoeless, my wet hair still dripping on my shoulders. Sore, and unable to push the feeling of repulse away.

The number of people to thank didn't dwindle once while I was in the Capitol. I spent two weeks there, only able to pay back everyone I owed by going at it several times a day and night with no rest. President Snow had seen me off before I went to the Capitol station. "We look forward to seeing you next time, Ms. Mason." he'd said, his eyes cruel and his smile triumphant.

Next time my ass. Half the people I saw I didn't recognize. Without Blight there, I had no honest way of knowing if all the people who paid me to spend time with my body on their silken sheets actually sponsored me or not during my games. Kale's sponsors however were identifiable, but they all seemed to blur together after a while. I'm just glad to be done with them, to be home, far away from that entire place, and away from the things I did that will probably always haunt me.

With another games approaching within the next few months, I begin to dread what will happen once it's finished. What it will mean for me.

"What a mess I've gotten myself into," I mumble, thinking perhaps it would have just been better if I'd been killed during the games. My brother, father, and Bruce would've been upset, but they would have moved on. None of them would be in nearly as bad a state as they are now. Probably better off without me around to fuck everything up.

"You're telling me," I look up, barely able to see Blight's silhouette standing in front of me. The last thing I want to hear is a lengthy talking down to about how much of a screw up I've been, but Blight doesn't ridicule me at all. "I'm sorry," it comes out of nowhere. Blight has never apologized to me before, and he's done nothing wrong, so when I ask "for what?" he doesn't hold back on telling me about his guilt.

"I should have gone with you. But Alan…" I'd forgotten all about the elderly man, and his gouged eyes. I tell Blight that I understand. That if I'd been in his situation, I would've done the same. He doesn't ask about how my little visit went or how I'm feeling. His ability to be able to sense someone's miserable discomfort is something I will always value. He leads me back to my own home telling me to stay there.

"Try to keep it together. For your sake, and Noah's." he hands me a few of the solidified dissolvables, and closes my door.

My mother returns in my dream. A thick fog wafts slowly through the trees, and I see her lying in my father's bed, shivering, coughing, just as she was the day before she died. I walk closer, and see Logan coming towards me. His body still adorned with the wounds he received from one of the Careers. Still livid with my actions. The more I try to apologize, the more people start showing up from the thickening mist. My father, carrying his own urn, dressed in the clothes he wore when I was reaped. Bruce, soot covered with his mother and siblings. Kale and Elsa, too; both bleeding freely, blood gushing down their chins while they speak. Needless to say, I don't wake up from this nightmare very smoothly. The morpling keeps me in a limbo. Left awake just enough to hear myself sobbing, but still keeping me sedated enough to not be able to turn it off.

I regain enough control around four in the morning, and put the other dissovables back with the small syringes hidden in the office end table.

The next month and a half passes in a heavy case of delirium. I try to stay as focused as I can on Noah, to be engaged in what he's doing, or learning; as if to make up for lost time. He doesn't talk to me about how he's feeling, or how he's been with everything that's happened, and I don't press him for answers.

Blight checks on me every other day, taking turns visiting Alan and me, until I assure him that all that isn't necessary. That I'll be fine. I'm young, and my body can take a little damage here and there.

My reluctant return to the Capitol is mandatory; though this time for something I would never be able to turn down. At Game Headquarters everyone looks at me in new ways. But not because they feel sorry for me, like last year. A few nod at me, paying me more attention than before. Another averse favourite of the Capitol. I guess they're glad to see I'm still managing to keep myself composed, for the most part.

The two tributes I receive this year are nothing special. Two thirteen year old's with no particularly special skills or knowledge to offer, but it's something I actually have a say in what keeps them going, if they survive long enough. I monitor the girl without moving away from her screen for nights on end. She does well enough, but is gone within two days.

The mentor from Twelve, Haymitch, having already lost his tributes, and looking unfazed by it, offers me some kind of liquor to help me stay awake, but I deny it; wanting to be sober for this. I owe the remaining boy that much.

The yellowed skinned mentor from District 6 approaches me after a few more hours pass, offering a small, easily concealable syringe full of morphling, which I gratefully take, but don't plan on using. At least, not yet. The boy makes it a week in, until getting himself chased into a gamemaker's very efficiently hidden tar pit, where he sinks, until becoming completely engulfed.

The morphling needle immediately makes contact with the crook of my right arm. I push down, finally able to breathe, to let out a long, relaxed sigh. It's horrible to say, but the relief I feel is mind numbing. I almost feel giddy that it's over. Sure, I'll have to act like I care when whichever kid who wins this thing comes to my district for their Victory Tour, but for now I'm free to put all this behind me. Get on with my life until the next one.

I almost feel like celebrating on the train ride home.

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><p><em>I'm awful, I know. I sincerely apologize for making each and every one of you that has been patiently waiting for me to update. My only excuse is college and many long mandatory meetings. I'll try to work on being more efficient.<em>


	11. Chapter Ten

_As always, characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that wasn't written by her has been improvised by me. _

_I sincerely apologize for the overdue posting. Juggling life and college does not always work out as smoothly as one would hope._

Without further ado, here we go!

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

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><p>Winter came just as it always did. Relentless, and without warning, nearly turning the district desolate except for the ones responsible for lumber.<p>

It was early in the morning. The sun wasn't up yet, but I was. Restless. Plagued with nightmare riddled insomnia, as usual. I was walking out into the now empty forests, carrying one of the rare chainsaws my district shared amongst its inhabitants in one hand, and an ax in the other; wading my way through the snow that barely went above my thighs.

I'd left Noah at home so he could get a chance to sleep in for once. During winter school wasn't in session, so that everyone could put their time into getting the Capitol what it wanted, no matter how severe the weather was.

I lit a few of the lanterns that had been left behind, and began chopping, hacking, sawing away with tremendous vigour, putting my energy into getting enough firewood not just to warm my home, but Blight's and now Alan's as well.

I made my trek back as soon as the sky started to phase from an inky black, into a pale hue of pink; using the path I had created hours ago, pulling the collar of my thick coat up, tightening the knot in my scarf, even though neither barely gave me any warmth by now.

When I reached the edge of where the forests began, and the rest of the district met, I saw many rows of people standing in single filed lines in the square, waiting for their annual amount of extra meals, which were only handed out so they could work longer.

The pink hue I'd seen earlier was starting to spread out in the distance, silhouetting them with a reddening backdrop. Noah was within the lines, dressed better than anyone else. His healthy amount of weight, and suitable clothing contrasted against the rest of the pole thin population that wore ragged patched jackets and pants.

I put the ax and chainsaw back in one of the storage sheds with the other lumbering supplies, and stood with him while he ate out of a tin bowl, full of some kind of slimy watered down liquid that was drowning a few mashed potatoes, and bits of carrot.

"You know we have better quality than this at the house, right?" I tugged his knit cap over his ears, wiping at the snow that dusted his shoulders.

He pulled away from my hand, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and snapped,

"Yeah, well maybe I don't want any of that stuff."

I sighed, folding my arms over my chest, more out of reserving bodily warmth, than being frustrated at him.

"What are you even doing out here, Joh? Shouldn't you be off doing something, I don't know, actually important?" His bitter tone wasn't lost on me. I knew I'd been away longer than either of us liked, once the previous games I hadn't cared about had finished, and having spent the last three months returning 'payments' multiple times a week.

"I am," I retorted back, just as sharply. "You're important to me."

He gives me a doubtful glance, which resembles our father perfectly, mumbling, "Is that all?"

"No. Someone's gotta bring in firewood for Blight and Alan. Otherwise they'd freeze to death." I ruffle his cap, taking his tin bowl and utensils back to the serving table. "I'm borrowing one of the wheelbarrows. Try to be careful working. Keep your ears warm." Even though he rolls his eyes, and turns his back to me, I know he'll take my nagging to heart, which puts a small smile across my face.

"I don't see why you're making such a big fuss." Blight grumbles from the inside of his home, talking to me from an opened window, while I stack the supply of firewood I had cut, near his front door.

"You should. You're the one who told me not to tell him anything."

He props his elbow on the window sill, resting his scruffy chin in his palm. "Yeah, and? Has he asked you anything?"

"Well, no." in fact, now that I think back on it, Noah and I have hardly spoken to each other, let alone spent any real time together, ever since I started making 'payments'. I can just make out a look of obvious insouciance on Blight's face, from my peripheral vision.

"Alright…so what's the problem here?"

I slam a log down probably harder than was necessary, causing the stack to dishevel itself, and sprawl out across them porch.

"Maybe the face that I have to _hide _things from my own brother, the only blood relative I have left, is bad enough on its own. But no! I can't explain to him the reasons why our father, Bruce and his whole family, are gone. Or why I have to abandon him several times a month to screw around with people I despise so he'll be safe. Why, I'm the only person he can depend on anymore, is entirely because of _me! _It's all because of me, my fucking screw ups, and I can't even tell him! Do you have any idea how hard it is continuously making up lies? To never be able to be honest with someone you care about?"

Blight's mouth is tightly lined, and he's stopped looking at me. But he is calmer than I expected when he gives a light nod of his head. "Unfortunately yes, I do. Well, did."

I try to replace the stack neatly, but my hands tremble with too much anger that's still begging to be lashed out.

"Yeah well, I'm beyond tired of it. It's driving me nuts, Blight."

"Clearly."

I roll my eyes, dead panning my face. "Fine, then. What do you suggest I do?"

He adjusts his posture, staring out into the distance for a few quiet moments before looking back at me. "Same thing you've been doing." I start to protest but he cuts me off. "Trust me, Johanna. It's better if you don't drag him into it." He closes the window, walking out of his front door, folding a scarf around his neck.

"Where are you going?"

He doesn't break pace as he puts a few logs under his arm, and goes down the porch steps, walking out onto the road. "To see Alan. Just remember what I said, and you should be fine."

That night, sitting by the fireplace, my parents simple wedding photo resting on the mantle, I lean back, easing my head onto a pillow wishing they were still here. I could use their advice.

In the black and white photo, neither of them are dressed particularly fancy. My father's hair is combed. Mother's hair is down, instead of tied back like she used to style it, and her lips are actually not chapped for once. The clothes they wear are clean, the dress mother wears being one she wore constantly throughout my childhood, but that's about it. They stare back at me almost impassively, letting their eyes do the smiling their flat mouths are absent of.

The resemblance between Noah and our mother is undeniable. He has her light brown hair, and honey flecked eyes. Her smile. But he has father's personality. The type who is passive, and ignores a person or situation, if only to avoid conflict.

The front door opens and closes, deterring my train of thought, allowing a few flurries to sweep their way into the den.

"Welcome home."

Noah almost jumps when he pokes his head around the wall and sees me sitting on the den sofa, still dressed in my day clothes.

"What are you doing here?"

My face scrunches up, hurt by his tone of voice, but I let it slide for now, and sit up. "I _do_ live here, you know."

"Could've fooled me," he mumbles, while turning away to hang his coat, gloves, and hat on the rack, making his way to the arm chair near the practically unused television. He sighs loudly when he sits, closing his eyes. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. I'm just tired." From my viewpoint it looks like the chair could swallow him whole, with the way his body slumps into it. He's been doing this kind of work since he was a kid, but his body still slacks like it will crumple into itself if he tries to get up.

"Here, take the couch." I scoot to my left, letting Noah lay his head in my lap. His eyes remain closed, and he doesn't pull away when I start to stroke the wet strands of his hair.

"You should get in the bed."

" Mm."

I tug on his hair, getting an annoyed grunt from him. The sound of the fire crackling across from us becomes almost comforting as Noah's breathing evens out, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm. I cannot restrain the frown I make while watching him sleep. Blight's words come back to me. _"Better not to drag him into it." _But it's too late for that. Regardless of how much of the specifics Noah knows about, I've already dragged him into this. He's been part of everything ever since I won, and it was stupid of me to foolishly hope for any other scenario where that wouldn't be the case.

The phone rings loudly, startling me upright. I'd almost forgotten we'd had the thing, since I never had a reason to use it. I lean over Noah, towards the nearby end table that holds it, steadily letting annoyance take over at whoever is ruining the first actual chance of reconnecting with my brother in months.

I don't bother answering it, gripping its cord and ripping it from the wall's paneling. The other phone rings on its own from somewhere upstairs, but I'll get around to tearing it out later.

Noah's growth dawns on me when I carry him up to the stairs to put him into his bed. He's still only a kid physically, but emotionally he's grown beyond his years, no thanks to me.

Untying his boots to slide them off, faint whimpers and murmurs can be heard from him. His face looks calm enough, except for the furrowing of his eyebrows. I reach over, pulling the quilted bedspread up to his chest.

"Shh, Noah. You're alright." He moves a little, not waking, but not necessarily quieting down, either. I almost consent my thought to give him some morphling, but opt to give him a few sips of warm milk instead. "Last thing you need is to end up like me," I mutter, heading towards his door. Before I can step out of the doorway I hear the faintest plea for our parents, escape from his mouth in a pained seeking sob.

Determined to save him from his nightmares, I head back to my room, not caring if sleep eludes me tonight. Content to wait until the time when Noah finally needs me.

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><p><em>Again, thank you for reading. I really appreciate those of you who have been so patiently waiting for an update, especially when it's been so long. I can make no promises, but will definitely try to update again the minute I get more spare time. <em>


	12. Chapter Eleven

_As always, characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that wasn't written by her has been improvised by me.  
><em>

_Just sending out a sincere thank you to everyone who is still sticking around waiting and reading. I've been writing when I can, but have been away on a mini-vacation—which is actually where I wrote the majority of this—and the new term has demanded my attention yet again, but don't worry. I'll still be writing and posting when I can!_

_Let's get started, sha'll we?  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<br>**

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><p>The day when Noah would need me, and all I had to offer, would come too soon.<p>

It was nearly eleven o'clock. The sun already nearing its highest point in the sky outside, blazing with a humidity that threatened to smother anything it could get in its grasp.

I was already primped, pressed, and waxed by my prep-team. My stylist had just finished trimming my hair and adding some final touches, dressing me in a pale green dress which matched many of the trees current flourishes of colour. It flowed to my knees just enough to leave my toned calves bare, with sleeves that were cut at a precise slant to show off my biceps at any angle, and a waistline that tucked in to emphasise my frame.

They'd shown up unannounced two hours ago, and had remade me into what the rest of the nation was familiar with seeing. I was currently sitting on the edge of Noah's bed, trying to wake him.

"Noah...Noah, wake up."

He stirred at my words, but rolled onto his side. I pushed him onto his back, and stroked his cheek with the back of my hand. "Noah, get up. C'mon, you need to sign in before it starts."

Noah lazily put his hand on mine, holding my fingers with a light grip. "Mama?"

My face softened at first, until I remembered the entourage standing in the doorway of the bedroom, watching us. I kept my back to them and cleared my throat, turning my impassive demeanor back on. "No, Noah. It's me."

He opened his eyes then, frowning, obviously disoriented from some kind of dream. He sat up, letting go of my hand to rub his hair sleepily.

Peri stepped in, flamboyantly dressed as always, with his newest shade of lavender hair, lips, and fingernails, his eyelids tattooed in an even more intricate style that spread above his eyebrows, covered in glitter, adorning a bright yellow suit that had too many ruffles for my taste.

"You guys should go tend to Blight and Alan. I can handle my little brother."

It only took a few minutes for Noah to bathe, and pick out what he would wear. Once he'd finished getting dressed he sat down, and much to my surprise, let me comb his hair to the side. The past few months since winter where Noah had, for the most part forgiven me, had been better than I could have ever hoped for, but this was as close as he would let me get, when it came to taking care of him.

"So, you nervous?" he sat in a chair that usually rested in front of the mostly unused vanity that was in my room, keeping still while I trimmed his split ends, turning his shaggy hairstyle into a clean cut.

He looks down at his lap, fidgeting at a wrinkle under his knee. "Guess I should be, shouldn't I?" The mirror shows his face twisted in a dreading grimace.

"It's perfectly fine if you are," I say, trying to soothe his nerves. "Everyone is their first go around."

"Were you?" his question catches me off guard, nearly making me snip one of his hairs too short. Usually he never bothers to ask about the past, and has never expressed interest in knowing about things he was too young to remember. Most memories like that involved a time when Mother was alive, and I didn't like talking about it.

"A little," I lied. In truth on my first reaping day I could barely feel anything. Our mother had been gone from our lives for three years at that time, and our family was still struggling to come to terms with it.

I realise now it's been almost a decade since the illness took her.

"Well I guess you've got a good attitude about it. If there can be such a thing." I straightened his shirt collar, wiped at lint, tugged at wrinkles, and handed him his belt.

I lead him from our house with my arm around his shoulders, following the rest of the district to the peacekeepers that account your presence.

We parted ways before reaching the lines that lead to the pricking of fingers to sign yourself in. I squeeze Noah's hand and patted his arm the same way our father had done for me on my first reaping, and walk past everyone else, going on the stage to take a seat beside Blight.

He's dressed nicely enough. Clean shaven. His uneven trimmed hairstyle does cause me to raise my brow at him. I'm sure he gave the prep-team a hard time, since he doesn't really like anyone to touch his head; let alone his hair or neck.

Alan looks nice too, but I suppose it doesn't really matter since it's not like he can see what he looks like.

I watch Noah from above, standing with the other twelve-year olds at the front, the mob of them visibly shaken up, more so than everyone else. But Noah seems focused on something else entirely, not even bothering to give his attention to the beginning anthem, Peri's greeting speech, or to the annual treaty presentation.

I can feel Blight watching me with a wary gaze but pay him no mind.

Peri grins his wide mouth, flitting his hand into the girl's names, calling out a sixteen year old Brynne Cedrus. She nearly faints on the dirt ground below, but two other girls who I can only assume are her friends, since her sister and brother are past reaping age, hold her upright.

Peri thinks nothing of it, of course, and heads to the boy's ball once she's made it to the top of the stage, not seeming to care that he's dooming anyone he calls out to an immediate death wish.

He unfolds the slip of paper delicately, his smile only widening even further when he speaks into the microphone.

"_Noah Mason_" booms out of his low drawl and into the audience, causing many to gasp or look up towards me in horror.

I've fallen out of trees more than I care to remember. I'm not the best climber, but I've always managed to be good enough for whatever job was at hand. When I was much smaller, too light to lift logs or drag fallen trees into stacks, but lean enough to climb, I would aid the lead climbers; able to fit between branches easier than I can now. My breath stifles like it did the few times I slipped out and landed flat on my back; balling itself in my chest, the blood noticeably draining from my face. I dig my perfectly filed nails into the arms of the chair I'm in, ruining them, ready to rip the paper from Peri's hand and tear his head off for announcing something that just couldn't be true, but Blight clamps his hand over my wrist, gripping it tightly, successfully preventing me from flinging out of my seat.

I see my face on the large nearby screens, thankful my demeanour has remained unchanged despite the increased lack of colour my face is getting. My eyebrows dart down in a rage, not particularly directed at anyone, except perhaps myself. Internally, my throat is burning, tensely holding in a furious scream, my insides boiling, absolutely livid with anger.

I scan the crowd of boys in disbelief. They look back pale-faced and nervous. The silence among the crowd, aside from Peri's clapping, is maddening.

Don't they know? How could they not? My face should be evidence enough of what this will do to me.

_'This is going to kill me', _I want to scream. '_Please anyone go in. I don't care how uncoördinated or talentless, just anyone but him. Please.'_

It's completely selfish, cruel and horrible of me to beg for, but I'm not surprised that I catch myself wishing for it. Hoping for someone else's older, less vulnerable kid to volunteer.  
><em><br>_But no one comes forward. The rise of anger I feel rush through me, seeing them stay so still and so quiet, is almost impossible to hold back. I'm completely unable to do anything except sit up here, clamped in place by Blight's iron grip, forced to watch Noah wordlessly walk on to the stage top, stiff, with his face absent of his usual olive complexion, obviously terrified out of his wits.

At first, after a minute or two of watching him, I think he's attempting the weakling trick I had tried. But as I look on, the way his shoulders tremble, and the tight clench of his hands on the end of his shirt, with his nose breathing short, quick gasps, in the habit he has a tendency of doing when trying to hold in sobs, makes me think otherwise.

The anthem plays. The one's not chosen take their breaths of relief, and hug their closest loved ones. Then, the ceremony ends. Once we're free to move I wrench away from Blight, going straight to the Justice Building, to the room I know Noah will be waiting in.

He's sitting on the same love seat he occupied when he hadn't known where our father had gone. The peacekeepers close the door behind me and Noah barely gets a chance to glance at me with slightly reddened eyes before I take a seat next to him. He leans into my arms before I can speak, burying his face into my chest. There is no coddling, or reassurances that he'll be fine. I just apologise over, and over, as if it will change things.

Most of my words throughout the time given are murmurs. Soft words containing promises Noah snaps at me not to make.

By the time the hour is up, the front of my dress drenched from his tears and his eyes are puffing, but neither of us say anything when the camera crews record us exiting the Justice Building, until we're pulled apart from each other. We're put into separate cars that take us to the train. When I step on board, Blight grabs me by the elbow, yanking me into his compartment.

"Ow! Damn Blight, what!" I jerk my arm back, looking up into his red angry face.

He slinks back, keeping balance by putting his hand on his bedside table, glaring daggers at me; and rasps out, "Just what the _hell_ did you do!"

I step back from his outburst, the reek of alcohol already soaked in his clothes and breath. "What? Nothing! What you told me to!"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting a loud gruff come from his throat, setting a pristine half full glass bottle down on the tray in his room, and seems to compose himself for a few minutes before speaking again, this time through gritted teeth, in a tone that is obviously being forced to a pitch lower than he would prefer, so Brynne and Noah don't hear.

"This isn't a coincidence."

"Oh, really?" I snap sarcastically, placing my hands on my hips. "You know, I figured that out when his fucking name was the only one called out of a thousand other slips."

"That isn't what I mean." his eyes lock on mine with such intensity I can't break away. "_Why_? Just _what _exactly did you do to upset him this time?"

My arms fold over my chest, almost as if to protect me from his accusing tone."_Nothing_. I swear, Blight. I did what you said."

He doesn't seem to believe me, and presses a button that locks the door before I can try to leave. "Think, Johanna. It doesn't have to be something painstakingly clear. You know he enjoys subtlety."

I lean against his closet doors thinking back to the past six months, trying to remember anything significant that would bring the President's rage radar down on me. All I say is 'nothing', to which he snaps at me to think harder. Finally, I realise a potential cause and mumble, "I pulled the phones from the walls."

"How much?"

"All the way. As in no longer working."

"When?"

"Sometime. A while ago. February, I think."

Blight's hands tense themselves into fists. "So, you ignored him for what, five, almost six months."

"I didn't know it would be him calling. It's not like the phones have ID, and besides, they've been replaced since last week." I said bitterly, pushing myself from the doors, getting closer to Blight's face.

"Like that matters! Honestly who else would ever bother call you, Johanna? Certainly not me!" his hand clenches in his hair, gripping his slightly grayed strands tightly. "There's no telling how many times he must have attempted to get a hold of you." he's pacing now, keeping his eyes down, smooth hairless cheeks getting redder and redder with each passing minute.

I keep quiet, entirely unsure of how to respond to this. Once again, I've done something stupid without realising it and now Noah is the only one left to pay for it.

"You've really screwed up this time." his voice, so full of complete uncensored antipathy at what I did, just piles on to the intense self-loathing I already have, making it hard for me to move.

He undresses from his reaping suit, muttering obscenities while ruffling his hair back into its untidy state, putting on a simple shirt, pants, and shoes. He gives me a pointed glare before pushing the unlock button, brushing through the doorway wordlessly.

Noah and Brynne sit in the dining corner, both quiet, neither of them touching their immaculate glasses full of water or the small baskets that have a better quality of our district bread, piled high.

I hurry past Blight, sitting beside Noah, subtly putting my arm around his back.

During the reaping's recap on the television, Claudius Templesmith talks to the cameras about the Capitol's excitement for this year's Games because of Noah's reaping. They're unsure as of now if we're actually related or if it's just a similar last name, but they don't bother hiding the ecstatic joy they'll express if we are. It's not saying much, since the Capitol crowd gets excited about the games and tributes every year, but it makes all the difference to me.

When we arrive in the Capitol, the excitement seen on the television becomes complete fan-based madness directed at our little group. I'm separated from them a few hours after getting into the training centre, expected to give an exclusive interview with Caesar Flickerman in a matter of hours.

My prep-team spikes my hair with a glue like gel, and my stylist dresses me in a leather jacket that's so tight it's almost fitted to me like a second skin, showing every muscle, groove, and dent my arms or legs have, again, giving off the appearance of being indestructible.

The jacket is probably the only piece of clothing I actually approve of, but I can only imagine how hot it will be under the lights with the accompanying dark skirt, stockings, and knee-high steel toed boots. Why not just put me in a dress like the ones she's been making for me, I don't know. She says something about trying to keep my indestructibility, but to also give a sense of experience. To give me a sophisticated edge that says I'm more of an expert at mentoring than I really am.

The amphitheatre of people in the massive crowd goes wild when I walk out, unimpressed with their doting screams and flowers thrown my way.

Caesar kisses the top of my hand, seating himself in the plush chair beside me.

He asks me about Noah right away, wanting to know if the rumours are true about us possibly being related. I lean back against the back of the chair I'm in, making myself seem as if I've nothing better to do, glaring at a button on his twinkling suit.

I do all I can at this point, which is lie through my teeth. "Well what do you think? I suppose we do look _awfully_a lot alike. But you know, that really isn't saying much. Many people look like us in District Seven." It's vague, snide and even a bit teasing to the brainless, oblivious people watching me. But the audience reacts excitedly anyway, clearly not entirely sure of what I meant, but reacting so because they've probably been dying to have this confirmed since this morning.

Caesar tries again, asking me as a mentor, how I'm feeling about him being chosen, especially at such a young age. Proud? Elated? _Jealous,_ perhaps?

"Surprised," I answer, folding one leg over the other, giving his attempt at goading me into giving the audience what they want, a small, barely detectable, smile.

He makes an offhanded joke about Noah rising to fame, stealing my thunder, and all those that adore me. Through the crowd's carefree shrieks of laughter, I notice it. The reason why everyone has such an intense interest in my brother.

They're basing him entirely from me and the performance I gave during my Games. The lot of them must genuinely think he's pulling the same defenceless façade I had, or at least that, that is the tactic I've coached him to do. They don't know like I do; how Noah truly is at such a disadvantage. He doesn't have a violent bone in his body, nor has he ever killed anything substantial, except for a few spiders. Unlike me, who knows, out there all on his own, how helpless he'll be. They don't have the faintest clue about what kind of person my brother really is.

I'm brought back into focus from one of Caesar's hands on my arm. He asks what I suspect to be for the third time, how I think Noah will do during the impending games.

"Well," I project towards the crowds, not entirely sure how to voice the jumble of emotions his question brings up in me. I choose to take the easy way out. Give an answer suitable enough to keep them interested, but also bland enough to keep how I really feel, hidden."Guess we'll just have to wait and see to know for certain, won't we?" I add a misleading smirk for good measure before Caesar signs off enthusiastically.

The tight jacket I wore during the interview has long been discarded when I enter the elevator, leaving me in the matching skirt, boots, and thin tank top not too different from the ones many people in my district wear during summer forest work. It does nothing to calm my queasiness, if anything, it only increases it during the ride that takes me to the centres rooftop. The wind chimes audibly cling when I walk out, but they aren't all that's here to greet me.

"Finnick?"

He turns around at the sound of his name, a polite smile twitching across his lips. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway, leaving the bruises on his neck and chest, exposed; the marks in the shapes of other people's lips and teeth. Seeing him covered you'd think these people had nothing better to do than suck on him as if he were a valid life force.

"Interesting turn of events this year." he mutters after a while of nothing but us just standing beside each other, in silence. I say nothing back, keeping my sights on the busyness of the city below. He glances away from me before adding, "I'm guessing Mason isn't a common surname in your district."

I've never told Finnick anything about my family before. And I don't know if he's being oblivious on purpose since unlike the rest of the nation, he's very good at looking past all the glitz and glam, able to see the reality of the person underneath.

"Yeah, it isn't." I sigh, leaning, pressing my forehead into my left palm.

One of his large hands rests on the middle of my back, warming the spot almost immediately with light pats. "They've reaped someone I care about too." I vaguely remember his district's reaping. Quite a pretty girl, with dark brown hair, and striking features had been called. I don't remember her name but I do remember Finnick's expression. His face outwardly showed everything I had felt internally, when Noah's name had been called out. Disbelief at the outcome. Tragedy. Heartbreak. Rage. A strong desire to protect and defend.

"You seemed to handle yourself pretty well in the interview, at least the bits I saw." It's a small compliment. One I know he's only using so I'll keep talking to him, instead of tuning him out, but it doesn't make me feel any better about anything.

"That's all I am to these people." I rest my weight on my palm, pressing my hand over my eyes; not needing to see Finnick to know his eyes are trained on me. "Just a vicious, muscular, ticking time bomb, with a bad habit of launching first with full force, and thinking later. They don't see the real me, and I doubt any of them would ever want to."

Finnick pulls his hand off my back to rest his chin in its palm, casually leaning closer. "To be fair, I'm equally sure you wouldn't want to show them that side of yourself." I lift my face from my hand, seeing him raise his eyebrows as if to say, '_right?_'

"What does it matter if I do, or don't? What do I have left to lose now?"

It's so final, saying it like that. As if there's no hope for things to turn out in my favour.

"What do any of us have left to lose? Even if you'd been killed three years ago, he might have been chosen anyway. But it's not all bad. You have such an advantage. You know him so intimately, his greatest strengths and weaknesses. You can coach him in a way most mentors dream of doing."

When I don't respond with much enthusiasm he sighs. "All you can do is mentor him. Prepare him, and do your best to keep him alive once he's out there."

"I could say the same to you, you know."

A small twitch, a flinch in his shoulders passes and he looks away from me then, clearly not wanting to talk about his situation, changing the subject, offering to head back down together.

I get off at the seventh floor leaving Finnick to ride the rest of the way on his own, and go into the dining room, seeing a few Avoxes standing at their posts and Blight seated with a few untouched foods.

I sit across from him and pick up a piece of our district's bread. Pick off the pine seeds; nip small chunks, savouring the perfection on my tongue. Dip a few fancy Capitol breaded cookies into rich coffee. Give Blight a few wary sideways glances.

Finally, before I actually start any real eating, he gruffly asks me what it is that I want.

His tone is much calmer than the one he'd used in his compartment, giving me reason to believe that he's somewhat sobered himself up by now. "I want a trade," I say. "I want to coach Noah instead of Brynne."

There's no argument from Blight. He does put in his two cents about how he doesn't think it's a good idea because of what could very well happen later, but agrees once I tell him that I don't give a damn about that. That he's _my _brother and no one is more suited to coach him than me, dammit.

"He's over there." is all Blight says to me before leaving the table to go to his room.

I hadn't noticed Noah sitting on the strangely twisted furniture where the enormous television is.

I walk over quietly, turning the volume of the re-running reaping, and my earlier interview down, sitting on the coffee table, looking at his downcast face.

Still dressed in his reaping clothes, he doesn't acknowledge my presence. "Where's Brynne?" I ask, even though now I really don't mind where she is, but he keeps his eyes closed, either not knowing, or not caring. So, I try again, leaning my hands on the table.

"This is Teak wood. Did you notice?" He opens his dampened eyes, both of them much redder than they'd been at the Justice Building. "Oh Noah," I choke out, sliding on to the sofa, cradling his head under my chin, hugging him close. My voice repeats what I said hours ago.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry. This isn't because of you. It really is my fault. Blame me. I promise, I_ promise_, I'll do my damnedest to keep you safe. Just please don't hate me. I'll do everything in my power to make sure you survive as long as I can.

This time he doesn't snap at me to not promise him anything. All I hear from him are small sobs. The weight of everything I've put him through, losing our father, losing Bruce who had been like an older brother to him, losing me, in a way, has finally drained him of the cold impassive composure he's fronted all these years. Ironic, his grieving of all these things, happens in the place where it essentially began.

"I'll help you, Noah. Believe me."

He clings, wrapping his arm around my waist, burying his face into the crook of my neck, muffling his cries of worry. I stroke his hair, threading my fingers through each strand, massaging his scalp repetitively.

"Just trust me."


	13. Chapter Twelve

_Characters obviously don't belong to me, but do belong to the lovely Suzanne Collins. All I'm doing is having a bit of fun, and improvising a ton.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<br>**

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><p><strong><strong>

So far, things really haven't gone in anyone's favour. Noah hasn't made much of an impression in any area. He scored an _8 _after three days of observation, and his interview was just about as exciting as watching grass grow. It's unfortunate, that until now, when it mattered most, I never realised how he really isn't particularly _good _at anything. At least, nothing good enough to gain the Game makers attention.

Sure, he can cut down trees that stand miles high, and is a pretty fair climber, but that isn't enough. I've warned him that there might not be anything familiar to him in this arena. He'll be lucky if there are any hatchets, wire, or knives, because from what I've seen on the supply screen for this year's Games, the Capitol is planning on twisting things up in the only way they know how. Cruelly.

I try to think that staying under the radar might help more to his advantage, but another part of me wishes I had announced him as my younger brother. At least then he would have some potential betting sponsors, which as of now, he barely has a handful.

Blight disagrees. Says it's too late now. They'll see how he is in the arena and deny any relation to me, whatsoever. I'm not shocked by his attitude and quick negativity. All we've done is argue ever since I decided to coach Noah myself. Every day I'm stuck sitting in the Game Headquarters I'm forced to listen to him lecture me, like he is now, when talking to everyone else ceases to amuse him.

"Either way I don't think any of it would be in his favor regardless, you know? If they knew he was your brother, they'd just target him worse than they are now."

I bite my tongue, not letting what I really think of Blight's opinion out onto the surface. To me, I don't see how it could get any worse for him. His low scores have put everyone's hopes of being anything like me, further up. There's a hype going around; an expectation of him either reaching or surpassing my standards, and I just know that when it doesn't happen, things will only go from bad, to total shit storm. People are vaguely interested, but not willing to confirm their sponsorship until the games actually start. I've tried to reassure Noah that it's alright, but he doesn't seem to think so.

Brynne, however, as frightened and nervous as she had been, has done a magnificent job of winging everything. She's nothing special by Capitol ideals, but she's surpassing Noah in everything she attempts, which says more to the people who will most likely be betting on her, than it does to me.

In an annoying, stubborn, not wanting to admit I'm wrong kind of way, I have to concede to myself that Blight is completely right. It's too late to feel regretful about anything. The 70th Games are two days away; and there are no strings I can pull, or people I can talk to, besides the other mentors, who have their own tributes to worry about. Everyone, excluding the mentors from Six, Woof, and Wiress, have been consistent in making sure they show up here. Even Haymitch has, though I'm pretty sure he only comes to take in the delight of some of the finer quality of booze that will not be allowed in here when Game Day begins. These days, the ones before the Games, when tributes are given a little free time of their own, is just time I spend lounging around in here, socialising if I feel necessary, before returning to my floor.

But, it's inevitable. I say my goodbyes to Noah before he gets on the hovercraft that will escort him to the tube that leads to his arena. I briefly remind him that he can do this. "Just remember your strategy," I say, putting my hands on his smaller shoulders. "Run, hide, be quick, you know how fast you are. Grab what you can and then haul your ass out of there. Keep out of sight. Think, what would the enemy do? Use the environment around you to your advantage, if you can. I know you can."

He doesn't say much to my encouragement, but hugs me very tightly before we're forced to part ways. I get on an elevator before I let myself feel any kind of worry or doubt, and head to the Game Headquarters, putting the earpiece into my left ear, and turn my station's screen on.

I get a good look at the arena through the different cameras which have been scattered about. It's very flat, with mountains that curve and connect, forming a bit of a barrier to one side, with many rivers around. The stone used to make up the ground is slick with something wet. Water, I'm guessing, since it's constantly moving. Every now and then, the view will tremor lightly for a few minutes, before steadying.

The tributes come up slowly as the countdown begins. Brynne stands already arched towards the Cornucopia, two tributes down from Noah, who is pale again and clenching his fingers on the end of his jacket.

The minute the gong bangs out into the air, my pulse quickens, and my hands stay mounted on the controls, ready to send the first thing that becomes available.

Banally, everyone's first move is to run to the Cornucopia. A few slip, not anticipating the slickness of the ground under their shoes, and end up busting their lips or noses, but manage to get up before any real damage happens. It's a rude awakening when the fastest get to the Cornucopia's mouth. Nothing in it at all but weapons I can bet half of them weren't expecting — maces, scythes, flails, staffs, — weapons that strictly require close combat. The more desired weapons such as swords, knives bows, spears, and axes, rest further within, where you're almost guaranteed death if you try to venture in.

As far as supplies go, there are only a few small backpacks, which seem barely adequate to hold anything substantial. Noah wastes no time, grabbing whatever he can, and running just as I suggested. Surprisingly, Brynne doesn't keep herself separated from him. She's there by his side a few minutes later, carrying a larger backpack and heads east, away from the raging bloodbath and into a section full of waterfalls. I glance at Blight, who is also focused on his screen, watching them run off, and wonder if he'd said something to her before she boarded the hovercraft.

Thirty minutes later, the wet ground around the Cornucopia is soaking red. Ten children have been slain, including Finnick's tribute boy, who is barely recognisable, being chopped up the way he is. Annie, his tribute girl, has fled since then, and hasn't been seen.

During the night, the killing slowly calms, leaving many of the tributes to find shelter or explore with the plants and fauna this arena offers. One tribute, the boy from three, eats a water lily that causes him to bleed out from every orifice within minutes after biting into it. There are many other plants the game makers have rigged to do something similar. Wrap around a tribute's torso and literally squeeze the life out of them. Puff out a powder that causes disorientation and severe asphyxiation when breathed. Another that spurts out an acidic liquid that dissolves anything down to the bone.

Thankfully, Noah and Brynne have avoided the plants. They drink from the overlapping falls which are surprisingly safe, and have only eaten from the small amount of bread Brynne had received. There isn't as much killing via tribute vs. tribute happening, much to the Capitol's dismay. After a week, only fourteen have died in total, and the audience's unrest starts to become evidently clear as the days pass.

Despite the limited action, I'm proud of Noah. He's survived, still living. Been able to spot a few plants he recognises on his own and has outlasted the others through sheer self-preservation. I've taken over for Blight at times, when exhaustion would overwhelm him and he'd nap in his seat. It's during that time, watching Brynne, that I begin to notice how I might have misjudged her.

At first I thought she would be one of the first to die. Thinking of her as a weak stomached girl, since she nearly fainted; but she's proven me wrong. It's clear through her decisions, her teaming partnership with my younger brother; that she's subtly proving how against she is for someone so young being reaped just as the majority of our district is. She's been protecting and trying her best to guide him ever since the gong rang, which I admit, makes me happy.

I do keep the potential possibility of a trick being up her sleeve aside, hoping her nurturing is genuine.

However I'm not given long to worry.

It's on a particularly slow day, just nearing sundown, when the light trembles that have been passing through the arena's ground, suddenly become more violent and intense out of nowhere; causing everyone to jump in alarm. The camera's lenses views blur, causing great difficulty for me to keep track of where Brynne and Noah are.

But then, a huge, thundering, crash of a sound spans out into the air, followed by a torrent rush of water. I immediately stand on my feet with the other mentors, screaming for Blight's help, equally as frantic as they are; a mass of supplies raining down, anything they can to keep their kids afloat, being sent out.

Most of the tributes start popping up everywhere, coming out of their hiding places and straight out in the open, the majority of their weapons left scattered behind, each trying to run through the now knee-high water, all heading for the Cornucopia, just to have something to climb on. However they never reach it.

The dam that's still being torn to pieces by the unexpected earthquake, starts to crumble, the rubble sliding as steadily downwards, as the water below, until huge chunks start falling to the ground, like flameless meteorites. It only takes a few seconds until one of the larger boulders crushes Brynne face first before she reaches the halfway mark to the Cornucopia. Rapidly, the current starts to pick up, pushing any kids that remain, back, sending some towards a nearby whirlpool while others simply flail around until they sink. With water levels progressively rising, I desperately scan the flooding arena for Noah.

I send out a few more floatable things for him to cling on to, but they too, don't reach him in time. A very large, unpredictable wave comes crashing down over everything, easily covering the entire Cornucopia, tail and all.

Once I see the massive body of water go over his dark ruffle of hair, I know, then and there.

My world is on its way to ending.

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><p><em>AN: ahh, it's so nice to hear how many of you are enjoying this story! It truly brings a smile to my face. I appreciate everyone that does. Not much else to add except, you'll see me when you see me, né? Thanks, again. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully express my gratitude. _


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_Characters belong to Suzanne Collins. As you know, a lot of everything is heavily improvised by me. _

_Just a quick note! The reason for the name change is because I've a tumblr with the same name and figured it would be easier if the two matched. Feel free to ask me questions, tell me what you think, or make requests there, since I'm pretty much on it daily and am bound to see it/respond quicker. :) [www . oliveowlss . tumblr . com ]_

_Now, let's get started. _

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<br>**

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><p>It happens so impossibly fast.<p>

A second. Maybe two. One moment he's struggling with water up to the pits of his arms, and the next, he's completely submerged.

The Games Headquarters is in complete chaos. A few mentors have already given up, staying put in their seats, staring blankly at their screens, while the others who are still on their feet, yell out slurs of profanity for a cheap stunt, only pulled to gain attention at the expense of the impatient.

I try to ignore them. Tune out their angry yelling. Focus my energy on watching the arena fill itself up. The treetops reflection in the water would be a more beautiful sight to see, if I didn't know so many kids were drowning underneath its depths. The hours that follow are grueling, and go by at a snail's pace. But I stay at my station, even after everyone else has long-lost interest, determined to see this out to the end.

Near the time of an artificial sunrise, a quick splash of water brings everyone's attentions to the larger main screens above our stations smaller ones.

A few minutes of doubt pass letting the thick tension return within the room, until a second splash breaks it, and a head bobs up over the waterline. My chest twists painfully, threatening to crush my lungs once and for all, when I see that it isn't Noah who resurfaces.

It's Annie, Finnick's tribute girl. Panicked and frightened, but she's there. Alive, and moving through the water with such grace, which is a better state than anyone else can say for their tribute. But it's clear that she's more than that, if you know Finnick well enough. If the small softness in his eyes and extreme look of relief is anything to go by, she must have been the person he mentioned caring about on the rooftops weeks ago.

I should be happy for him. Tell him I'm glad one of us was able to keep someone we love, but I hold back on allowing myself think that way just yet. Instead I firmly keep scanning the water, looking for signs of anyone else.

The arena drains itself continuously for a day and a half. Just enough until bodies start to float up. Some are tangled in floats, while others only stay upright because of life jackets. It's difficult to tell who is exactly who at first, because everyone has swelled, and been bloated up twice their size.

Eventually, after scanning those that have surfaced several times, I spot him. He's face down and water-logged, with none of the life preserves I sent out to him on, or near his body. The only thing identifying him as my brother is the brass knuckles, the only tool he ever received from sponsors, stuck on his swollen fingers. I lean back, pulling away from the screen, letting the ear piece flop to the floor, watching his body float aimlessly.

I tell myself there is no more to doubt. My little brother is gone, and there's no way for me to bring him back.

It was just my luck, or rather, a severe lacking thereof. Karma would have him be in the one situation he wouldn't be able to handle. Where, in a district full of lush green and forests, would he ever learn how to swim? Except for the occasional puddles, there isn't any sort of body of water deep enough to actually swim in.

Blight's eyes are also glued to the screen, silently taking all of this in, just as I am. We stay quiet over the increasing protests and fusses of the other mentors. Quite discreetly, he places one of his big hands over mine.

The process after this, the retrieving of kids from their watery graves, unclogging their bodies so they look almost normal again, dressing them up, making them look as if they could be sleeping, is something I oversee entirely, for Noah, with the daily helpings of morphling. Normally, mentors don't do any of this for their tributes, unless you count making sure their coffins are on the right train.

Noah's casket is on display for me to look over one last time before he's boarded up. It's made of cedar. The same wood the cabin we used to live in was made with. He's dressed just as I asked.

Simple elegance. Nice, presentable, but not overly done like everyone is here. His hair is combed to the side, watery debris no longer tangled in it. All of his orifices are clear of mud and dirt. Without the water to clog his body, he seems smaller than when he first went in, before the earthquake made the dam erupt. He looks like he did before I had won.

The soft material of his jacket has a slightly hidden silken quality to it, that I can feel when I rub my hand over his sleeve. My fingers stop short just above his breast pocket, hovering over a giant white rose that hadn't been in his lapel the last two times I had checked him over.

I never asked for such a detail, but I figured the President would contribute a little something himself, while I was away giving the Capitol audience a second interview about the aftermath, lying straight to their faces; telling them they'd gotten their hopes up for nothing. I didn't have to put much effort in making them believe Noah and I weren't related. My nose wrinkles in disgust. The wretched flower smells as awful as Snow does.

Seeing it on Noah, the putrid stench and clash of colour it has against his dark suit, it's as if the rose is defiling him. Tainting the purity he had managed to hold on to. I rip it from his lapel, crushing it under my boot; leaning down to stroke Noah's cold cheek.

It's over. It's over. Over, over, over, over, I whisper to myself on the train ride home, not bothering to give the view outside the window my attention. Noah's fate had always been unavoidable. It just so happened, it had to be sealed publicly. For sport, no less. Blight keeps close to me as scenery passes by, telling me I can reassure myself all I want, but it won't make things any easier.

When I reach my home, his coffin is already waiting for me. It's untraditional for non-Victor's to be buried, since whoever lived here when the districts were formed, decided that doing so would spoil the ground. Noah is the first to be placed in the privileged cemetery, which is only accessible through the Victor's Village.

There's no eulogy and no prayers or reassurances. I just stand there while they work on getting his coffin to go down. After the first pile of dirt is thrown over his casket, I turn away, going straight to my house, locking the door behind me and pulling the curtains tightly over the windows.

For the next three days I keep myself inside, putting anything that has any link to my brother into piles. His bedding, his clothes, the quilt that lays over the sofa in the den, the cups he drank out of, even the woven pine needled wreath that hangs on our door every anniversary of either of our parents death, and Bruce's. I take it down, but don't give it away like I do many of the other things, because I'll now have four reasons to repeatedly put it up.

If it weren't already, morphling becomes my best friend in the world. Once everything I can think of is gone, my house seems bare, visibly representing how alone I am. By the time night falls the morphling's daily stupor has worn off and I usually venture outside, bypassing Blight and Alan's houses and going into the woods where I can sit and spend even more time by myself.

One night, as I'm heading out as per my now somewhat permanent routine, Blight stops me at my doorstep asking if he can come in. I don't want to, but I retreat inside to the den, watching him shrug off his coat and hat grumbling because he obviously plans to stay here for more than a few minutes. But it isn't a lecture that waits me when he sits down beside me. He pulls something folded from his pants pocket and hands it to me.

"I know it hasn't been easy on you. It never is." I don't unfold the paper, listening to his low voice. "But Johanna, lately you…well, frankly you look like shit. When's the last time you bathed or ate a real meal?" I don't answer, not out of disagreement about my appearance, but mostly because I don't remember the last time I did anything that didn't involve sulking. "I'm not mad," he reassures, placing his hand on my denim clad knee. "I don't want you making the same mistakes I did. You're much too good, too strong, for that." When I don't respond again he removes his hand and advises me to straighten the hell up, saying neither Noah, my father, or Bruce would ever want me to become the way I am.

He makes us both some tea, and watches me eat a small plate of food, telling me about all that's been going on in the district. People aren't as angry at me for failing Noah as I've assumed. "They don't really care enough to be worried, but that's only because many are intimidated by you." This brings a smirk to my face. A nice improvement from the heavy frown that's been adorning my face ever since the Games ended.

"Good," I grumble. "I don't care if I have friends, Blight. It's never done me any good."

He responds with a disagreement meant to be wholehearted, but I don't really hear him.

Before he gets up he tells me to use what morphling I have left, wisely. "Don't come crying to me for any. It's not there anymore, and I won't be swiping more for you either."

After the door closes behind him I unfold the piece of paper and see that it's a photograph someone must have taken the day our group was getting off the train in the Capitol. Brynne and Blight are behind Noah and I looking off to the side, all of us obviously unaware that this photo was being taken. One of my hands rests on Noah's right shoulder, leading him through the crowd looking ahead; the lot of us except Blight, still in the clothes we wore to the reaping.

I briefly wonder how Blight managed to get hold of such a photo, but it's passed over by an almost immediate thought is to burn it, wanting to cast that day, this whole ordeal, from my mind completely. Instead I set it on an end table, and walk down to the cellar, turning on a lantern, seeing my father's cobwebbed urn sitting in the same spot it's been in for the past three years.

The rose that's been tied around it is still in pristine condition, acting as if the past three years had never happened. I do end up burning the flower, but leave the ribbon around the top, and carry it out, setting it on my kitchen table. Clearing it of dust and webs, I rub my hand over the golden letters that spell out my father's name.

Perhaps Blight's words are getting to me, or maybe I'm just finally owning up to the guilt, but when I actually let myself feel something, I know I don't want to feel like this anymore. And I know he's right about how they all would feel if they were to see me in such a state. I set the urn on my brother's empty dresser in his room, framing the photo Blight gave me, letting it rest beside my father's ashes.

There's nothing more to do, or to be done to me, I promise myself. Snow has nothing to use against me, but the moment I get a chance to shove all the pain he's put on me, back in his face, you can believe that I will. I want him to pay for it. Pay for everything he's ever done to anyone.

It would test my patience like nothing else, but I swore to not stand down in presence or emotion, if the moment ever presented itself. I just never expected a girl from the Seam to be the start of it all.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen  
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><p><strong><strong>Too long. Far too long have I spent the past three years stressed, my time strenuous, and morphling free. Three horrible years, where I've been helplessly bringing nothing but dead kids and grief home. It has left me feeling so, so tired. Tired of the repetitive trips to a place I hate with nothing to show for it. Tired of being reminded of my ultimate failures every time I step inside my empty home; or walk past the still black burnt patch of ground where Bruce and his family used to live. Even now, at this year's 74th games, both of my tributes have already died, being taken since the gong sounded. I had barely started to look through supplies when Blight turned his screen off, and told me not to bother.

I remember the night before coming here. Bruce had come to me in my dreams with smoke pooling off his hair, almost unrecognisable in the dark familiar forest I found myself standing in. He was alone, gripping my arms, earnestly trying to warn me about something. Burns covered his entire body, only leaving his eyes as indication to who he was. While his mouth moved, no sound came out. Like someone had taken his vocal cords. Maybe it was just my head messing with me, too afraid to hear his voice after going so long without hearing him.

I also remember the reaping. Not my district's particularly, but _hers. _The one from 12. Katniss Everdeen. A gaunt looking girl who sacrificed herself for her sister. A girl who was lit on fire and paraded around. And man, has she been the talk of the Capitol. Her name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth every time someone says it. It's no secret as to why. She'd done what I wish I could have done for Noah. Seeing her step onto that stage in place of her little fair haired younger sibling makes me hate and admire her for her selflessness all at the same time.

And that boy, he's hopeless. Charismatic, but hopeless. Confessing his love so openly, so readily, what an idiotic move. It may have won the Capitol crowds over, but not me. I'm not convinced this girl loves him as much as he does her. Haymitch knows how to play it to his advantage but not every victor is entirely sure Snow will let such a simple thing dupe the games.

"I don't see why you hate her. You haven't even met." Blight mumbles from his place at the table our room on the seventh floor holds, poking a few beans around with a fork.

"I don't hate her," I state from the couch nearby, scratching at the smoothness of my recently shaved legs. "I just don't _like_ her." In truth, she's given me no real reason to hate her. My aversion to this Katniss, probably stems from all the things I see in her, perhaps because I see too much of myself in her. Out of everyone else, she's the one I would hope to win.

"You should know better than anyone to judge a book by its cover." I roll my eyes at his sideways complement; and keep my attention to the massive screen on the wall, watching the display of the earlier reapings for the eighth time. Twelve has not had a victor in decades, so I don't get my hopes up. I may want her to win, but I won't be surprised if she fails in these games like so many from her district have before.

Weeks later, I'm almost eating the words I'd said to Blight. Haymitch's boy, Peeta, has been severely wounded for days. The boy from eleven is not far off from leaving this world, the girl from five is struggling to keep herself out of the way; and Enobaria's male is viciously making his way to the top. Though I'm not any closer to liking her, I can't deny her skill. She's been cunning, determined, and only lately, become more and more panicked as the days have gone on.

It shouldn't matter to me. What happens to any of them is out of my hands. My part in these Games has been over. I want to get this over with. I want to go home, back to the trees, and the smell of pine, if only to get back to a normalcy of some kind, before I'm forced to return. Anything is better than watching this girl manipulate Peeta's emotions to her benefit. As flawless as her scheming is, it does leave me staying put, solidly placed at Haymitch's back, waiting to see just how long she can keep cheating death.

A few days later I'm not left to wonder anymore. I watch over Haymitch's shoulder as the unbelievable happens. _Two_ winners? I look to Finnick and Mags who stare back at me in equal disbelief. I turn my attention back to the screen, to the two of them being taken into the hovercraft. Neither of them have any idea the danger they're in. How much they've changed things, and what Snow will undoubtedly do to make sure they play this the way he wants.

These games might be finished, but I'm still left wondering how this will turn out in the aftermath. 

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><p>AN: Ah, yes, yes. I know. Where have I been? Classes and exams have taken over my life, and with only two weeks left before summer term starts, my posting will be sporadic and I can't really guarantee a firm schedule. But I will post when I have the time, promise. I know this chapter isn't too eventful or exciting for that matter, but something is better than nothing, né? Reviews are fantastic as are those of you who have stuck it out. Words cannot express my appreciation.


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